


Blood Dries Up (Like Rain)

by broadlicnic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Multi, PTSD, Post-Season 2 AU, Previously established Sterek attraction, Vigilantism, dark!stiles, emissary stiles, gradual sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadlicnic/pseuds/broadlicnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His name is Stiles Stilinski. In a month, he'll be 18 years old. He has a rudimentary knowledge of magic, a surprising talent for lacrosse, and he's seen more dead bodies than he can count.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Everyone is desperate for revenge. But the new family of hunters in town aren't the only threat. There's a vigilante taking the werewolf/hunter war into his own hands.</p><p>Stiles has post-traumatic stress and hasn't seen anyone in months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place at the start of senior year, so the following events should be assumed to have happened in the interim: Chris has joined the pack, and they reluctantly have accepted Peter into the fold. Scott and Allison are back together. Danny is clued up to the werewolf situation but only recently so. Stiles was made lacrosse co-captain and his and Derek's attachment to each other had started to grow before Stiles isolated himself. The Alpha pack didn't happen.
> 
> My knowledge of PTSD isn't very extensive, so I apologise for any mistakes made. My knowledge of vigilantism is entirely made up.
> 
> As for the upcoming character death, it kills me to have killed off this person, because I love them to bits, but I couldn't get this idea to work for me with anyone else.

“McCall! Where the hell is Balinski?”

“I don’t know, Coach. I haven’t seen him.”

“Well, when you do see him, tell him that senior year started last week, and if he doesn’t get his ass to practice, I’ll make Greenberg co-captain instead.” A pause. “And don’t think I didn’t hear that groan, Jackson. Now everyone out on the field!”

Isaac grabbed Scott’s elbow and held him back. “You haven’t heard from him either.”

“No, I’ve heard from him, I just haven’t seen him.”

“Nobody has,” Jackson interjected, hanging back with Danny. “Not since…”

“I have,” Danny said. “Well, I saw him getting into his Jeep. I didn’t speak to him or anything.”

“How did he look?” Scott asked.

“I don’t know. He had his hood up, I didn’t see his face. I only recognised him by the Jeep.”

“Field! _Now!_ ” Coach’s voice echoed back into the locker room.

~o~

“Scott, is there a problem?” Deaton asked.

“Hmm?”

“It’s just, you’ve been wiping that same spot for 45 minutes.”

“Oh,” Scott said, staring down at the cloth like he’d never seen one before in his life. “Sorry.”

“Maybe you should leave early tonight,” Deaton said. “I can take care of things here.”

“Yeah, sure.” Scott tossed the cloth vaguely in the direction of the sink and grabbed his jacket. With an arm in one sleeve, he paused. “Should I go to see him?”

“Just have patience. He’ll be ready soon.”

~o~

_“Hey, Sheriff.”_

_“Scott. Stiles can’t come to the phone right now.”_

_“Oh. Right. Do you know when he’s coming back to school?”_

_“His counsellor says he’s ready. Soon, I guess.”_

_“Great. Um – He is okay, isn’t he?”_

_“I’d tell you if I knew, Scott.”_

~o~

“You can’t force it, Scott,” Allison said. “If anyone knows how messed up these things make you, it’s me.”

“And Derek,” Scott said. “He hasn’t heard anything either.”

“Why would Stiles go to Derek?” Allison asked, her hand carding through Scott’s hair.

“He was there.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t witness it,” Allison pressed a light kiss to Scott’s temple. “I know you’re worried, we all are. But we just have to wait. He’ll come back to us when he’s ready.”

~o~

**JACKSON: get boyd n meet @ dereks. i got lydia n danny**

**SCOTT: whats happening? & w/house or woods**

**JACKSON: woods. isaac there now. theres a situation**

**SCOTT: allison?**

**JACKSON: chris needed 2. theyll come together**

~o~

“What’s he doing here?” Scott snapped, eyes flaring gold as he snarled at Peter Hale.

“Relax, pup,” Peter said, leaning against the scaffolding of Derek’s half-rebuilt house, ice-pack pressed against his eye. “Just suffering from a concussion, not plotting your demise or anything. Now keep your voice down.”

“Can werewolves get a concussion?” he heard Danny whisper to Lydia.

“Is everyone here?” Derek asked.

“Everyone except Stiles,” Boyd noted.

“Yeah, well…” Derek began, before giving up and letting the uncomfortable silence fall on the group.

“Okay,” Lydia said eventually. “You said there was a situation?”

“Oh, yeah,” Derek said, blinking himself back to concentration. “There was an attack, earlier tonight.”

“Wolf?” Scott asked. “Kanima? Please, don’t let it be another kanima.”

“Human,” Peter piped up. “And the guy he attacked? Also human.”

“The victim was a hunter,” Derek said. “He’s alive, but beaten up pretty bad. Peter was there, but the guy knocked him out before he could ask any questions.”

“He wasn’t… you know,” Isaac asked.

“Didn’t recognise him from that night,” Peter said. “I don’t think he was one of them.”

“Mr Argent?” Scott asked.

Chris shook his head. “Haven’t heard of any other hunter families moving into the area. My guess is this guy works solo. And isn’t very good at it.”

“Why does this concern us?”

“The attacker used magic,” Peter said. “Well, not to attack. For that he swung a huge metal stick in our faces, but the hunter couldn’t touch him.”

“Like a forcefield,” Scott said. “Deaton has one around the clinic.”

“This is where Stilinski would be useful,” Jackson groaned.

“But Stiles isn’t here, is he?” Derek snapped. “Look, Scott, I know I said I didn’t want to depend on Deaton any more than I have to, but until Stiles-“

“I’ll ask him,” Scott cut in. “And I’ll call mom. She’s at the hospital; she might be able to find out something about this hunter.”

“Danny, I need you and Lydia on the computer,” Derek continued. “I want records of anyone who might have come to the area recently. Show them all to Peter and see if we can get a match on either of these guys while we wait for Mrs McCall. Then I want to know everything you can find out about them. Addresses, phone records, convictions. Anything and everything, okay?”

“Sure,” Danny said.

“Everyone else, we’re training. If these guys are in any way related to what happened, we take them down. Got it?”

~o~

**SCOTT: hey man missed u 2nite**

**SCOTT: i get ur not ready 2 come back 2 pack yet, but u ok?**

**SCOTT: stiles?**

**SCOTT: hope 2 c u back at school**

**SCOTT: plz call me back**


	2. Chapter 2

“What you write down in that notebook is not for me to see,” Ms Morrell said. “These are your thoughts, and they’re just for you. You can write as much or as little as you like, but I’d like you to write something now.”

_My name is Stiles Stilinski. In a month, I’ll be 18 years old. I have a rudimentary knowledge of magic, a surprising talent for lacrosse, and I’ve seen more dead bodies than I can count._

He’d seen Ms Morrell once a week for the whole summer. He’d talked just enough to still be Stiles, but he’d never said anything of real substance. Ms Morrell started to give him that strange knowing look that Deaton wore when he turned up for his lessons at the start of it all, just after he’d left the hospital. Those looks stopped him going to the animal clinic altogether, and they stopped him talking much at all. After two sessions of sitting in silence, besides a muttered “hello” and “goodbye”, Ms Morrell brought out the notepad.

He couldn’t avoid the counselling, though. Dad would ask too many questions.

He ignored Scott’s calls, but sent him one text a week to keep him from coming over to the house. He ate breakfast with Dad whenever he wasn’t working, then shut himself away in his room, completing his physio exercises and reading, until he heard the sigh outside his bedroom, the slow footsteps on the stairs and the click of the front door. The book was one of Deaton’s, full of protection, defence, and healing spells for the pack. But he hadn’t seen the pack since he left the hospital, one run in with Scott at the clinic aside, and these weren’t the spells he wanted to learn anymore.

Whenever Dad left, he’d head out into the back yard with his lacrosse stick and ball, and shoot at the baskets hanging from a tree until sundown. His aim had improved to Scott or Jackson standards, and the power of his serve had torn through three baskets already.

If Dad was home, Stiles ate dinner with him, and then waited in his room for Dad to go to sleep before crawling out through his window. If he was alone, he’d grab a sandwich purely for fuel and head out the door. Then, he’d walk through the streets and the woods (but not near the Hale house), lacrosse stick in hand, until dawn, when he’d sneak back in, lie awake in his bed for an hour then get up to start the routine again.

Sometimes, he’d go out in his Jeep, when he was feeling particularly angry. The Jeep was recognisable, it’d lure them out. But they hadn’t bit. Yet.

School started a week ago, but he didn’t realise until the next Tuesday. Dad called the school, and Ms Morrell, and decided Stiles could return any time, but lacrosse practice would nearly be over by now and he was still in the garden.

His phone bleeped in his pocket as he set down the lacrosse stick to take a sip of water. It’d be Scott. It was always Scott. The only text Stiles had received that wasn’t from Scott or his service provider in the last month came from Derek the night before. He’d deleted that one, and he would ignore Scott’s too if not for the incessant vibration against his thigh. He tugged a glove off with his teeth and fumbled in his pocket for the phone.

**JACKSON: where r u? coach will make greenberg co-captain if u dont get ur ass back 2 practice**

It was oddly comforting to note where Jackson’s priorities lay. Jackson would never send him a text as frustrating as “are you okay?” But Jackson was also still a dick, and still too close to the whole situation for Stiles.

So he text Danny.

**tell everyone i’m coming back 2moro**

There was no going back after that. Danny was good people, Stiles didn’t lie to Danny. It was safe, talking to him. He was clued up now, but so recently so that it still felt a little isolated, talking to him. Danny was the only person, aside from Dad, who Stiles had had a full conversation with in the hospital, even if it was only about hospital food. Nevertheless, he switched his phone off after that. He didn’t much care to receive a reply.

On his walk that night, he left the lacrosse stick behind, choosing instead to take the Jeep. He kept the hood of his jacket up as he drove, and made sure the metal baseball bat in the passenger seat lay with its handle pointing towards Stiles for easy access. But the streets were empty that night, a few cars speeding past him, but otherwise nothing. He’d called by a grocery store and picked up the local paper. Last night’s attack was front page news, and Stiles felt a twinge of guilt. He wouldn’t have touched the guy once he realised he wasn’t connected, but he was still a hunter, and he’d seen his face. The paper said he’d recover, but the police had found illegal firearms on his person. If word had got out about Stiles, he could easily plead self-defence coupled with post-traumatic stress.

He gave up around 3am, swinging the car around on a deserted road to head back home. Somewhere along the way, he found an abandoned sheet of scrap metal lying in an alley-way. He had it loaded into the back of the Jeep before he’d even thought about it. As he clambered back behind the wheel, he glanced back down at the photograph of the man he’d left lying in hospital.

 _He saw my face,_ he thought, and turned the key in the ignition.

~o~

Dad didn’t say anything about Stiles’ decision to return to school that morning, just told him to eat a decent breakfast and said he’d be home around six. Stiles drove to school with the sheet of metal and the newspaper still lying in his car, though he’d replaced the bat with his lacrosse stick. He felt eyes on the Jeep as he pulled into the parking lot, more eyes as he stepped out of the car, and more eyes still as he pushed open the doors of Beacon Hills High. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he adjusted his grip on his stick and headed in the direction of his locker. At some point on the journey, an arm had become linked around his.

“Everyone’s staring at you,” Lydia said. “I’ve been there. Best thing to do is stare right back at them.”

Stiles didn’t say anything, but at the sight of the bright red of Lydia’s lips and the soft curls of her hair, he felt a knot in his stomach loosen just slightly.

“Good to see you again,” Lydia smiled. She gave his arm a brief squeeze, and Stiles knew from the look in her eyes as she let go that the development of Stiles’ biceps over the summer surprised her just as much as they’d surprised Dad. “See you in chemistry,” she called out, and disappeared into the staring crowd. Lydia was smart enough to leave the hell alone. Scott wasn’t smart.

If Stiles timed his journey just right, he’d be able to avoid Scott until he’d taken his seat in class (he’d make sure to sit next to Lydia or Danny, just in case), and Mr Harris would not let Scott get the chance to start up a conversation. With any luck, he could avoid talking to Scott until lunch.

That was a conversation he really needed to prepare for.

Danny was already in his seat when Stiles entered the room. In fact, he was the only person there. That was another reason why Stiles liked Danny so much. He’d probably turned up early just so Stiles had a friendly face to greet him. That was the kind of person Danny was.

“Hey,” Danny said. “I thought maybe you’d want to be lab partners again.”

“Sure,” Stiles shrugged.

“And I thought we could sit at the front of the class. So you don’t have to see…”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” He dropped his stick onto the floor beneath the table, dumped his books on the desk and slipped onto the stool.

“I guess you heard about the attack the other night,” Danny said. Stiles nodded. “Derek’s uncle was there.”

 _I know,_ Stiles thought.

“Did he see who did it?” Stiles asked, busying his hands with a pen.

“No, just saw a blue hoodie.” He’d be burning that, then. “Didn’t even get a look at the weapon. He said it felt like a pipe.”

“Hmm.” People were starting to filter into the classroom now, but thankfully none were pack. Danny dropped his voice low. “The guy he attacked was a hunter. But he’s got no ties to anyone. Allison’s dad said he’s a lone ranger, probably new to the game. If the cops let him go, he’ll probably skip town.”

“That’s good.”

“We’ve got nothing on the attacker except that he’s male, and he knows some magic,” Danny continued. “Derek doesn’t think he’s after the pack, but he doesn’t want any attention falling on us, so we’re looking into it.”

“You are?” Again, Stiles twisted his pen between his fingers, trying his best to feign nonchalance. So Peter hadn’t caught his scent. That was good.

“Yeah, but Scott’s asking that vet guy to help, so you just focus on whatever you want to focus on,” Danny smiled. He glanced over Stiles’ shoulder. “They’re here.”

Stiles flicked his gaze to the classroom door, where the pack (not _his_ pack, not right now) froze in place, just staring at him. After a few agonising seconds, Lydia took the lead, dragging Jackson to the table next to Stiles and Danny. Scott and Allison settled behind them. Boyd wasn’t in their Chemistry class, so Isaac was left to sit beside the empty seat. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to look at that stool, too scared that he’d snap at the thought of the ghost who should sit there, and lose himself in that catatonic state he’d found himself in for three days, when the only thing that filtered through the white noise in his head were Dad’s anguished sobs when he thought Stiles couldn’t hear him.

Danny was the greatest person alive for choosing the front of the class.

The hour went by relatively painlessly. He filtered out the whispers from his concerned friends and curious classmates, and zeroed in on Harris’ voice, or Danny’s breathing beside him, or the scratch of Lydia’s pen as she made notes. He avoided making eye-contact with Harris, knowing it would lead to another dreaded “are you okay?” moment in a hushed whisper that would only cause more eyes to fall on him. When the bell rang, he was out of the door faster than any of the others could catch up to him, werewolf superpowers or no.

He skipped English, choosing instead to lie back on a bench in the locker room, staring up at the lights until spots clouded his vision. Drips from the showers pierced the silence of the room, and in them Stiles heard the heavy fall of rain splashing against the pavement, the screech of tyres. Screams; his own and another’s. He saw empty, staring eyes with every blink.

“Oh thank god,” Coach cried over the creak of his office door. “I can bench Greenberg again now.”

“Good to see you too, Coach,” Stiles muttered.

“You can still play, can’t you?” Coach asked. “After the hospital?”

“I can play.”

“Good,” Coach said. “I know you’re skipping class. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

~o~

To his credit, Scott didn’t bombard him with questions over lunch. Not immediately, anyway.

“The pack’s meeting tonight. You coming?”

Stiles shook his head, swallowing down a mouthful of curly fries that tasted like ash on his tongue. “Dad wants me home for dinner.”

“Maybe you could sneak away afterwards? We’d all love to see you there.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Stiles didn’t need werewolf senses to hear Scott’s mumble.

“You’re not the only one who’s hurting.”

“Really, Scott?” Stiles snapped, fist curling tight around the fork in his hand. “You want to talk about hurting? Did everyone have both their legs broken without instant healing powers? Did everyone watch it happen, powerless to stop it? Did you see _her_?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Scott began. “We’ve all helped each other through this. We just want to help you too.”

“I need to go,” Stiles said, pushing up from his seat and dashing to the door.

~o~

He’d gathered his books, his lacrosse stick, and was on his way out the front door when he turned, and headed off to the school reception. The woman behind the desk was new, but clearly knew who Stiles was from the way her eyebrows raised.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Are there any places available in metalwork?”


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner that night was a simpler affair than often. Stiles could fill the conversation with details about his classes (well, okay, he only went to Chemistry) and make it through the entire meal without saying anything about himself. Dad was giving him that look again, so he tried his best to keep his tone light.

After dinner, he settled himself on the couch next to Dad, pulling out a notebook and pencil. Dad stared at him for a few moments. Stiles had not voluntarily sat with him away from the dinner table in months.

“You don’t sketch,” Dad said, still staring.

“I do now,” Stiles replied. Dad turned back to the television.

~o~

By the time Dad had gone to bed, Stiles had filled twelve pages with sketches. The first page was filled with mindless, incomprehensible doodles, but on the second he’d settled on drawing Batman’s cowl over and over.

_”Stiles, you make a good Batman.”_

The cowl had evolved with every sketch, the ears re-shaping, the mask stretching out across the entire face, sticking out at the front until it didn’t much resemble a bat at all. In fact, the curve of the ears looked more like a dog. Or a wolf.

His subconscious clearly had plans for that scrap metal.

And why had he enrolled in metalwork anyway? He’d never shown any interest in any sort of craftwork before, he wasn’t too good with his hands.

“He saw my face,” Stiles muttered to himself. “They can’t see my face.”

~o~

He awoke with a jolt, still feeling the all-consuming pain in his legs, a scream trapped in his throat. His entire body was drenched in sweat, and for a moment he thought he’d been back in that rain again.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He meant to go out, like he did every night, but it had been over a week now since he’d last rested and the pull had been just too strong. His laptop was still lay on his bed beside him, but the battery had long since died out.

He swallowed down the scream and rubbed at his buzzed hair. Idiot. If he slept, he dreamt. In the dreams, he was just as weak as he’d been that night. He couldn’t be weak.

He couldn’t go out now, Dad would have heard him, would know he was awake. But there was no way he would let himself succumb to the torture of re-living everything. He stretched, and pulled a jersey over his sweat-drenched skin, grabbing his gloves, lacrosse stick and ball and taking the stairs two at a time. He didn’t even pretend to be quiet, Dad would be listening. And sure enough, when Stiles reached the back yard, Dad’s bedroom light was on, his face at the window and just _staring_ as Stiles shot basket after basket, growling in frustration until sunrise.

“Maybe it was too soon,” Dad said as Stiles stepped back into the kitchen.

Stiles shook his head. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

~o~

Stiles had to give the new administration staff at Beacon Hills some credit, they didn’t mess around. When he opened his locker that day, he found slipped inside it a re-arranged timetable. He’d be starting in metalwork that afternoon.

Scott avoided him most of the morning, choosing instead to sit with Isaac. And that was just fine. Isaac could be the one now who stopped Scott or Derek or anyone else destroying their entire lives, because Stiles had more important things to do. Danny was, again, excellent, and so was Jackson, who cared so little about Stiles’ pain that it was actually a pleasure to be in his company.

It was no surprise to him that Boyd would be in metalwork. He remembered Boyd had made a couple of knives last year. They weren’t elegant looking by any stretch of the imagination, but they got the job done.

Stiles set himself up at the opposite end of the room, but Boyd didn’t seem offended. He didn’t even look up from his work, and Stiles understood that. Stiles may have been the one to see it, may be the one torturing himself with the guilt, but Boyd lost the most that summer.

He showed the teacher (one he’d never met before, who gave Boyd “the look” instead of him, thank god) his sketches from the night before, and described the metal sheet still taking up the back seat of his Jeep. After a rather impressive lie about needing the helmet for LARP-ing the next weekend – he could have sworn he heard snorts from his classmates – the teacher conceded that with extra hours and assistance, the helmet could be ready by next Wednesday. But he’d have to give up his lunch breaks and a couple of hours after school. That was fine by him. He’d already missed the weekly lacrosse practice, and food tasted like dust to him these days anyway.

~o~

He drove on Thursday night. He drove again Friday. He would drive until his helmet was ready, because Stiles learns from his mistakes.

On Saturday, the sleep-deprivation really took hold, so he didn’t go out at all. He wasn’t about to throw all this away, the months of rehabilitation and training and fury, by falling asleep at the wheel and dying with his Jeep smashed up against some tree. He didn’t leave the house at all on Saturday, alternating between push-ups on his bedroom floor and scouring the internet for reliable offensive spells. The force-field was good, he could do that without thinking now, but the only other thing Deaton had taught him were a few accelerated healing spells. Deaton taught him to survive the fight. Stiles wanted to know how to start it.

By 8pm, Stiles had successfully got his curtains to spontaneously combust (and thank god Dad was at work. If he thought his son was a traumatised pyromaniac, he’d never leave Ms Morrell’s office again. And yes, his son being a traumatised vigilante was a completely different situation). Fire was messier than he’d like, but he supposed it would be poetic justice for the Hales. His telekinesis was still lacking. By 3am he’d managed to turn one page of his book without touching it. He gave up then, the rumble of his stomach reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in a day, even though he didn’t feel the hunger.

On Sunday, he started cutting into his arm. It wasn’t a self-harm thing, he didn’t feel any sort of release at the sight of blood. But even with the force-field, and the healing spells, he still needed to train his body to withstand pain. He couldn’t perform any spell at all when distracted by the hurt of an injury. If he could, he might have done something more to save her.

He was itching to get back to school, to finish his helmet and get back on the streets. With the helmet, he didn’t need to be discreet. He’d draw them out, make them pay, and sure, what he was doing would make Derek angry, and Scott concerned and have Allison lecture him about how this wasn’t the right way to go about things. How she understood – she didn’t, for a start Stiles wasn’t going after the wrong people – and to just leave it to Derek. Because that worked out so well for him last time.

Though maybe, with his disguise, they’d never find out either.

He swallowed down a couple of painkillers – the good stuff the hospital had given him for his legs when he was first discharged – and lay back on his bed, waiting for his body to respond enough for him to be able to heal the deep cuts along his left arm. The skin knitted back together easily, but a couple of the more severe wounds left thin, shining scars. He could explain those away easily. Stiles Stilinski had a reputation for being a klutz, even if he’d spent his entire summer working to eliminate that and his other weaknesses.

The unfortunate after-effect of the painkillers was drowsiness. As his eyelids closed, Stiles could only hope that they’d knock him out enough that he wouldn’t dream.

~o~

_“So…” Erica began._

_“Erica, lower your eyebrows, it’s distracting,” Stiles said._

_“From what, exactly? Our exact instructions were to wait in the car until Derek and Peter get back. What have I got to distract you from?” She leaned in closer. “Tell me I’m wrong.”_

_Stiles sighed, sliding his hands from the wheel and onto his lap. “You’re not wrong. Where was this ‘So…’ leading?”_

_“Are you Derek’s mate yet?”_

_“What?” Stiles cried. “No! Why would you even think that?”_

_“When he left the car, he said,” she lowered the pitch of her voice, knitting her eyebrows together in a frown that was uncannily reminiscent of Derek, “’Be safe.’”_

_“He’s the Alpha!” Stiles protested. “He wants us all to be safe.”_

_“Well he didn’t say it to me,” Erica said._

_“You’re a werewolf!”_

_“Fine,” Erica said, throwing her hands up. “Then explain to me why you keep risking your own lives to save each other.”_

_“You risked your life to save Boyd,” Stiles said, glancing out of the window for any sign of Derek returning. He would very much like to go home now._

_“Yes, and now I’m sleeping with Boyd,” Erica laughed. “Advantage, Reyes.”_

_Erica settled back in her seat, then. Her eyes fixed on the road, watching the passing cars, head twitching ever so slightly at every sound. Stiles tapped a rhythm out on his knee._

_“So if you and Derek get together, am I not your Catwoman anymore?”_

_“If by some series of unfortunate events, something did happen with Derek, you’d still be my Catwoman,” Stiles said. “Derek can be Robin.”_

_Erica laughed. “If you and Derek are Batman and Robin, then you are definitely hot for each other.”_

_“Oh my_ god _,” Stiles groaned._

_“Wait,” Erica hissed. “Did you hear that?”_

_“No, I don’t have super-ears,” Stiles whispered. “What is it?”_

_“Running.”_

_As she said it, two dark figures emerged from the trees, pelting towards the Jeep. Stiles had just enough time to recognise them as Derek and Peter before a shot rang out and Derek went down._

_“Get out of here!” Erica yelled, diving out of the passenger door. “Drive, Stiles!”_

_“No way,” Stiles insisted, struggling to free himself from his seatbelt. “I’m not abandoning you.”_

_“Fine!” she cried. “Grab Derek, and then get out of here!”_

_There were ten of them, all walking purposefully out from the trees. Guns cocked, they were already only a few feet away from Derek. One of them – god, she only looked around 14 – fired another shot into Derek’s leg. They’d taken out his kneecaps. Until they could get the bullets out and he could heal, Derek couldn’t walk. Shit._

_Derek was crawling towards him, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to move, could only watch as the head of the group stood over Derek’s body and aimed his gun at the back of Derek’s head. He squeezed his eyes closed, and waited for the shot._

_He heard it ring out, but into the air. Peter had thrown the leader off his feet and crouched protectively over Derek. Erica used the confusion to launch an attack on a group of the hunters, jumping on one of their shoulders and clawing at his face. Another fired arrows at her, but it didn’t even slow her down. Peter engaged the others in combat, inching them away from Derek. If he was going to get a chance, it was now._

_Deaton had taught him how to create a force-field, but with Stiles’ level of ability, it would only last a few moments, and only protect himself. It’d be enough to reach Derek, and he had to hope it would hold out until he got back to the Jeep. He curled his fists and stared ahead, feeling the now familiar tingling sensation spread out through his skin. And he ran._

_One of the hunters shot an arrow, and it fell to the ground inches from his face. At least that worked._

_“Derek!” Stiles gasped when he reached him._

_“Idiot,” Derek hissed through the pain. “Why didn’t you run?”_

_“Why do you think?” Stiles snapped. He crouched, heaving Derek’s arms over his shoulders, dragging him away from the fight on his back. He felt wetness seep into the back of his jeans, and hoped that wasn’t Derek’s blood spilling out onto him. Then he felt wetness again as the heavens opened, a sudden, heavy downpour obscuring his vision. Finally, he felt that tingle fade still metres from the Jeep. He was on his own now._

_Derek had fallen unconscious and was a dead weight on Stiles’ back. He felt his own knees begin to buckle, but he could do this. It was just like spreading the mountain ash. Believing made it so._

_“Stiles!” Erica screamed_

_His body rocked with excruciating pain as he felt the bone in his left leg shatter. Derek fell from his back, a crumpled heap on wet pavement, as the bat impacted his leg again. He dropped to the ground, tears in his eyes and a scream on his lips, and looked up at the face of his attacker. It was the leader, the one who’d almost shot Derek. He pressed his boot down on Stiles’ broken leg, causing him to cry out in anguish, then grabbed him by the back of his hoodie and dragged him over to the others._

_“This one’s human,” he snarled to the group. Stiles pushed his head up from the ground, taking in the situation. Peter lay still just as Derek had, but as far as Stiles could tell, he was conscious. Erica had been forced to her knees, movement restricted by the four hunters holding her down. He pressed both palms against the pavement, struggling to push himself upright, until he felt that boot kick down against his back._

_“He’s persistent,” the same voice chuckled, and he screamed in agony again as the bat connected with his right leg._

_“Hey,” the hunter said, grabbing Stiles’ face under his chin and forcing him to look up. “We’re not in the business of killing humans. Unless they get in our way.”_

_The hunter didn’t look too dissimilar to Chris Argent, the general look and the way he carried himself. But while Chris’ eyes were calm and sensible, this guy’s were filled with nothing but hate and rage._

_“Don’t worry, your Alpha is safe for now,” the hunter teased. “If we kill him now, we’ll never find the rest of your pack.”_

_He screamed at his body to heal, or to protect them, to do_ something _, but even if he knew the spells he was in too much pain. He was going to be sick, or pass out, or both. And god, he wished he’d pass out. Anything would be better than looking into this man’s eyes._

_“Still, I think we need to send a message to them, don’t you?” A grin spread across the hunter’s face, filthy and evil, and Stiles heard the distinct sound of a sword being unsheathed._

__No. __

_He tried to struggle but his body felt lifeless. He tried to squeeze his eyes closed but the hunter forced his lids open. Erica screamed his name over and over, her terror pounding in his ear drums, as the young girl advanced on her. The hunter cackled in his ear as the girl handed the sword over to one of the others. Erica caught his gaze as the sword swung back, terrified, that same look she wore before having a fit._

_And then the blade came down, and Stiles was left staring at rivers of blood and empty eyes._

_“Get the Omega,” the hunter growled. In the peripheral of Stiles’ vision, he could see a shadowy figure being dragged from the trees, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Erica. “This is James. He’s agreed to leave his fingerprints on the weapon, and to confess to the murder of your bitch, if we spare the life of his human daughter. Isn’t that sweet? So you see, in the face of that confession, no-one will believe you if you tell anyone about us.”_

_“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stiles spat. “My dad’s the sheriff.”_

_“Delightful!” the hunter laughed. “Congratulations on exposing your weak spot. We now know exactly who to kill if you even try going to the police. Have a nice day.”_

_The last thing Stiles felt before blacking out was a boot connecting with his jaw._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so Erica. I feel terrible for what I did to her, because I love Erica. But I needed one of the werewolves who wasn't Scott or Derek to die, and Erica was the one I felt would affect Stiles the most. Sorry!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry about the delay with this. I've been really busy recently, and will continue to be busy for the next few weeks, so while I'm still updating, don't expect it to be very frequently at the moment. (I'm still aiming to get this finished by the end of October, though.)

Sometimes, he'd jolt awake, sitting upright in bed like you see in the movies. Sometimes, he had to drag himself back to consciousness, like dragging himself, half paralysed, across the police station floor to reach his father, or dragging his shattered legs across wet concrete to Erica’s body after they’ve gone. He was half-aware of the blankets covering him, trapping him, and he tried to wrestle them away with his hands. His legs still felt useless, and the memory of the shooting pain was so vivid, he was half-convinced that he was still there.

Feeling hands on him wasn’t a new experience. Oftentimes he’d wake up cocooned in his father’s arms, but these hands just took a firm grip of his wrists, and pinned them to the mattress.

They’d come back for him, and he wasn’t ready.

He struggled against the tight grip, desperately trying to escape although his legs felt like lead, and he couldn’t open his eyes, his dream still wouldn’t let him. His breath was stuck in his chest, like he was drowning, and his body was drenched from sweat and the rain of his dream. And this was the feeling, the head-exploding feeling. He needed to let the water in. He’d failed.

“Stiles, stop it!”

The voice was so familiar he almost laughed, but it was still a struggle just to lift his eyelids. It took him a second to focus on Derek’s face, and then he was trying to fight him off again. Derek relented, releasing his grip on Stiles’ wrists and stepping away from the bed.

“It looked like you were having a seizure,” Derek began, “I didn’t know if they’d…”

Stiles shook his head. No, the boot to his head hadn’t caused a brain injury. But he couldn’t help but wonder if his panic attack made him look like Erica during her seizures.

He’d seen Derek once since the attack, standing at the end of his hospital bed while his dad slept in the chair beside him. But Stiles was so insane from the hurt and the medication, he couldn’t even be sure Derek was actually there. But he wasn’t in as much pain when he woke up the next morning. Since that moment, he’d been imagining what he’d say to Derek the next time they met. As he hurled lacrosse balls his mind would scream abuse at him. As he wandered the streets, he regretted ever meeting him.

_You were supposed to protect her. You’re the Alpha. Why haven’t you avenged her? Why did you come into our lives? Why didn’t you come to the hospital? I hate you. I miss you._

“How did you get in?” he asked, leaving all his questions unanswered.

“You left the window open,” Derek answered. Damn, he’d opened the window after the fire. He was only ever supposed to open the window to sneak out at night.

“Why are you here?” Stiles said, trying to keep his fury with himself out of his voice.

“We need a book of Deaton’s,” Derek said. “He says you have it.”

“This about the hunter?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded. “His attacker knew magic. We think he might be connected to what happened.”

_More than you’ll ever know._

“Okay, well, books are hidden in the wardrobe,” Stiles said, keeping his voice flat and rolling onto his side. He listened as Derek rooted through his belongings, biting his lips to stop himself either screaming at Derek or crying, until he heard Derek cross the room, heard Derek’s voice behind him.

“Stiles, I…” he trailed off, the silence stretching for what felt like hours. “We’d all like to see you at the house. When you’re ready. The pack misses you. They miss her too.”

 _They._ Of course Derek wouldn’t include himself in that. Derek doesn’t talk about his feelings, and that was why Stiles was better off working alone. He lay still, evening out his breathing to give the illusion of sleep. It wouldn’t work, Derek would be able to tell from his heartbeat that Stiles was still awake, but maybe he’d get the message that the conversation was over. After a few minutes, Derek climbed out of the window, and closed it behind him.

~o~

It was two months before school broke up for the summer, three weeks before the attack, that Stiles realised Scott wasn’t his best friend anymore. Good friends, sure, but not what they used to be. Scott had spent most of the school year with Allison, and if not her then Isaac. Truth was, they saw each other at school and pack meetings, and the only time they were ever alone together was when they were researching a threat.

Stiles didn’t mind so much. With Jackson and Lydia so wrapped up in one another, he and Danny had bonded quite a lot over being the only normal people in the pack (sure, Stiles knew some magic, but it was the spells with the power, not him). And then there was Erica, always his Catwoman. And Boyd was there too, but he didn’t talk much. Yeah, before everything fell apart, Danny and Erica were his best friends.

And that’s why Scott’s sudden re-introduction in his life was so terrible. At first, he clung to it. Scott was the only reminder of his life before all this, the one he could text when everything got too much. But over the summer, as he built up his strength then wasted it again trying to heal himself a tiny amount each day, he grew to resent Scott. If not for Scott, he wouldn’t even know about werewolves. Without Scott, he wouldn’t have met Derek. He wouldn’t have had to watch Erica die. Of course, Peter was even more to blame than Scott, and Stiles took a little bit of pleasure out of having knocked Peter unconscious with his lacrosse stick.

He told Danny all this, except for the Peter part, when it was just the two of them in the locker room. Danny had a free period before lacrosse practice, and Stiles was bunking off Chemistry yet again. In fact, the only class he had 100 per-cent attendance in these days was metalwork, and that was only to make his mask. The teachers didn’t mention it, and Coach Finstock collected all the work he’d missed and handed it to him at the end of the day. He didn’t want to demote another co-captain because of their grades like he did Scott.

Danny listened and nodded in all the right places, but allowed Stiles to initiate everything. He didsn’t ask questions, and didn’t press Stiles to say anything more than he was willing to offer. He did say that Scott only had good intentions; that he just wanted to understand and help, and the rational part of Stiles’ brain knew he was right. But Stiles had earned the right to be irrational, and Scott’s constant texts and desire to talk about it smothered him.

“Do you know how I first found out about the werewolf thing?” Danny said.

“Lydia told you,” Stiles shrugged.

“I still thought Jackson was dead,” Danny began. “They said he’d died on the field, they took him away in a body bag, nobody told me any different. So I’m at home, and I’m, like, catatonic because my best friend is dead. And then he shows up at my house, banging on my door at 2am, and I think I’m hallucinating. I mean, I saw his body. And Jackson’s in tears, telling me that he’s killed people. He’s killed so many innocent people and he didn’t even know. And I’m so in shock and so upset that I just keep asking questions. All I want to do is understand, but I’m so wrapped up in my own relief and confusion that I can’t see that Jackson is falling apart right in front of me. He ran off, and Lydia called to explain everything.”

“I didn’t know that,” Stiles muttered.

“So that’s why I haven’t spent as much time with Jackson this year. It’s not because of Lydia, or because I’ve been hanging out with you more. We still love each other like brothers, but the one time he needed my help, I couldn’t give it to him.”

“Okay, why are you telling me this?” Stiles asked.

Danny rested a hand on his shoulder. “Scott just wants to understand, too. You know he never will, just like I know I’ll never understand what Jackson went through. It’s your choice if and when you let any of us in, but don’t resent him. Erica wouldn’t want this to tear us apart.”

“What about Derek?” Stiles said. “Can I resent him?”

Danny laughed. “Trying to fix you and Scott is exhausting enough. There’s no way I’m fixing you and Derek yet. Let me sleep first.”

Stiles smiled, and the rest of the lacrosse team gradually drifted into the locker room. He said hello to Scott as he came in, hoping that would be enough for now, but Danny was wrong. Even if he and Scott had a hope of re-building their friendship, there wasn’t a chance of fixing things with Derek.

He’d left the pack. He supposed that would make him an Omega. But one thing it wouldn’t make him was weak.

~o~

The only time he ever felt guilty about isolating himself from the group was whenever he saw Boyd. Sure, Boyd didn’t witness it, but he still lost more than Stiles. He thought, on the Wednesday morning, that he should get over himself and help the pack avenge Erica like Boyd was doing, but then he remembered the hunter’s warning. If Stiles went to the pack for help, he could lead the hunters right to them and get them all killed. If he went to the police, his dad was at risk. Even if he wanted help, it would just cause more trouble for everyone.

So he sat on the opposite side of the class again, and put the final touches on his mask. The snout stretched out to a sharp point then dropped down, covering his whole face but giving him plenty of room to breathe. Two metal strips around the back secured it to his head, shaped precisely to his measurements for stability. Two small eyeholes gave him plenty of vision without revealing too much, and two wolf-like ears pointed upwards, sharp as daggers. It was terrifying, a monstrosity, and it was perfect.

His teacher had wanted to show it off to the class, but Stiles couldn’t risk Boyd seeing it in case the pack caught a glimpse of him hunting. So he stuffed it in his bag just in time before Boyd leaned over his shoulder.

“Derek said thanks for the book,” he said, and returned to his seat.

The book. Stiles had been so freaked out by _everything_ that night, he hadn’t taken into consideration what Derek having the book meant for his secret. He mentally ran through all the books from Deaton that were still in his closet after Derek’s visit. All the books on healing spells were still there, he was sure of that. It must have been the book on protection spells.

That was okay. He had the mask, he had the weapon, he had the fire spell, and he had nothing else to lose. This was no longer about defence. Stiles was going on the attack.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys, I'm so sorry. So many things have prevented me from writing this, from sickness, to work (got a new job which leaves me with little free time), to NaNoWriMo, to family issues.
> 
> I'm back now, but still will probably not be able to update any more frequently than once a month.

Elbow to the back of the neck. He collapsed to his knees, but he swung his leg out behind him, uprooting her from her feet so her back crashed against the concrete. His hand curled around the stick, slipping a ball into the net and hurling it at the one running away. It smacked him hard in the shoulder but he carried on running. Stiles readied himself to pursue, but the woman leapt onto his back, yanking down his red hood, curling an arm tight around his neck and pulling at the mask with another. It slipped up enough to reveal his jawline and lips, but from behind she saw nothing, grunting in frustration as she tightened her hold around Stiles’ neck. He threw himself back, the both of them falling once again against the concrete but her body breaking his fall. The impact caused her to lose her grip, and he scrambled up, pinning her body down by straddling her hips, and gripping her wrists to the concrete.

“I want the name of your leader,” he spat, his eyes blazing with rage through the thin eye-slit of the mask.

She laughed. “Does the little boy want to play wolf?”

“I want a name, and I want a place,” he screamed.

“Why?” she asks, glaring. “Run home, Little Red, and stay out of things that don’t concern you.” Her bruised lips curl into a smirk. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Stiles demanded. But she just laughed again.

“Say hello to the Sheriff for me.”

Stiles gripped the lacrosse stick in his hand once again, and brought it swinging down across her face.

~o~

He winced as he climbed the tree. Falling to his knees had rekindled the frequent burn in his damaged legs, and dragging the woman under the cover of the forest left him out of breath. When he was high enough to be camouflaged in a tangle of branches and leaves, he pulled up the mask and gulped in fresh air. He dug around in the backpack he’d left up there, first for a sandwich, and next for one of Deaton’s books. Not the one Derek had taken, but another he had swiped from Deaton’s office a few days back. He’d stolen Scott’s key from his backpack at school that morning, and replaced them the next day. If the book had been missed, no-one had mentioned it.

There was no guarantee the spell would work. Stiles had never tried it before, and he had no way of knowing if Deaton had even attempted it. Any mistakes, the book warned, could lead to a permanent and all-consuming memory loss. But if his dad had been compromised, this vile woman losing her mind was better than the alternative. That’s what he had to tell herself. Whatever may go wrong, he couldn’t be blamed for, and it was the universe punishing her for Erica.

It involved an herb, one he had to buy from a Chinese herbal remedy place just out of town, and cognitive recalibration. He had to boil the herb in water, get the woman to swallow it down, and then hit her really hard in the head. He was looking forward to the last part.

The woman still lay unconscious, propped up against the bark of the tree, so Stiles pulled out a flask of water from his backpack, and dusted the packet of herbs inside. This part he could do. Since setting his curtains on fire two weeks ago, he’d practiced controlling heat, and, placing his palm against the flask, he closed his eyes, feeling the energy drain from his body and pass through his hand. As his eyelids grew heavy, the water began to bubble. His bones ached as he climbed back down the tree, his hands struggling to maintain his grip. Just a few branches from the bottom, he slipped, landing on his side and crying out in pain. He hadn’t the energy left to try and heal himself tonight, he had to finish this. Crawling up to the woman, he tilted back her head and poured the already-cooling mixture into her mouth. The lacrosse stick felt heavy in his grip, but still he brought it up over his head, and cracked it down on the top of hers, collapsing over her body with exhaustion. He took a few unsteady breaths, finding the strength to get to his feet, and stumbled through the woods, hood up but the mask still in his bag, until he reached the edge of the trees, where his Jeep waited for him. He scrambled into the backseat, tearing off the hoodie and stuffing it into his bag, swallowed down a mouthful of vomit, and fell into unconsciousness.

~o~

At first, he thought the banging was in his head, until he heard Scott’s panicked, muffled voice calling his name.

“Stiles, wake up!”

He blinked himself awake. Daylight filtered in through the Jeep windows, and Scott stared wide-eyed down at him. He rubbed a hand over his tired face, feeling the dried blood on his lip but finding the swelling had gone down.

“Open the door, Stiles!”

Grunting, Stiles pulled himself to a seated position, and leaned over, ignoring the ache pulsing through his body, to pop the lock. Scott yanked the door open, clambering in until he was half on top of Stiles, hands cradling his face.

“What happened?” Scott asked, panicked.

“Get off me,” Stiles snapped, batting his hands away. “Nothing happened.”

“You were unconscious in the back of your car,” Scott said, not moving. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

Stiles hesitated, covering his tracks behind a yawn. “I get up early to practice,” he said, waving vaguely in the direction of the lacrosse stick. “Helps with my physiotherapy. But I didn’t want to wake up Dad so I came out here to do it.”

“But what happened to your face?” Scott asked.

“It’s dumb,” Stiles shrugged. “I went dizzy from my meds and fell, so I decided to come back to the Jeep and lie down until it passed. Now will you get off me?”

“Oh,” Scott said, sheepish, shuffling back. “You sure that’s all it is?”

“Yeah, trust me.”

Scott eyed him, but said nothing.

“Why are you out here anyway?”

“I’m on my way to Derek’s,” Scott answered. “He has something to show us.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his mind filling in with _Derek found the woman, then?_

“Yeah, so give me your keys,” Scott said.

“What? No.”

“There is no way I am leaving you out here alone like this,” Scott snapped. “So you can pretend that none of this happened. You can pretend that you don’t ever want to see Derek again. You can pretend that you don’t need us and you can just go to sleep in the corner while we all try to get justice for Erica, but you are coming with.”

“You’re a douche,” Stiles muttered.

“Yeah, but for once, I’m right.”

~o~

It was Allison who noticed the Jeep pulling up outside the Hale house, and as Stiles reluctantly let Scott help him to the door, it was Allison who dashed out from the porch to meet them.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” she cried. “What happened to you?”

“Meds.” Stiles mumbled. “Woozy. Fell.”

“Scott?” Allison asked, her eyes still wild in alarm.

“He’s fine,” Scott said, which Stiles in his half-asleep state could still interpret as _He’s fucked up._

As he hobbled up the steps of the porch, he heard a car door slam behind him. Craning his head, he saw Danny and Lydia running towards him, Jackson following at a leisurely pace. On the porch, Derek, Issac and Boyd stood to greet him. Chris and Peter leaned against the newly-replaced door, an equally sceptical look on both of their faces.

“He’s okay,” Scott said, before anyone could ask. So all it took was a few bruises for Scott to act like his best friend again.

“Good,” Chris said. “We could use all hands on deck for this one. Deaton said he’d drop by tonight.”

“Sorry,” Stiles snapped. “I’m not here as part of your pack. I’m only here because Scott won’t let me drive my own Jeep.”

“Here,” Derek said, stepping forward. “Let me help you up to my bed before you collapse.”

Without even glancing at Derek, Stiles shuffled past Chris and Peter and pushed open the door. “Issac, I’m gonna go borrow your bed for a while.”

He’d almost reached the stairwell, aware of numerous eyes, both wolf and human but all concerned, watching his pathetic limp, when Danny’s strong arms swooped around his back and under his legs, heaving him into the air.

“I can do it,” Stiles protested, even though every step he took felt like walking on knives.

“I know you can,” Danny said, taking the unstable steps slowly, “but they have wolf issues to discuss, and I am considerably non-wolf.”

The bedroom, if you could call it that, consisted of three mattresses, one for Derek, one for Issac and one for Peter, laid out on the areas of the landing that were still structurally sound. They’d begun fixing up the house, starting downstairs with a small kitchen housing little more than a microwave, fridge and table, a bathroom that had running water from the faucet and the toilet, even if the shower was still currently a hose, and lounge furniture taken from Issac’s old house, but upstairs had barely been touched. And it was petty, insisting that he stay in Issac’s bed when Derek’s mattress lay right next to it, but Stiles thought he’d earned the right to be petty.

“I’m not gonna ask questions,” Danny said, laying Stiles down carefully on the mattress then perching himself on the edge of Derek’s. “Just tell me you won’t die.”

“I won’t die,” Stiles said.

“Good,” Danny nodded. “You’re too cute to die.”

“Danny, are you flirting with me?” Stiles asked.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Stiles mumbled, his eyes drifting closed. “You’re Danny.”

~o~

He woke up alone, still on Issac’s mattress, with a blanket tucked around his shoulders. Good old Danny. He couldn’t have been out for more than ten minutes, because as he turned his head to peer out over the landing and down the stairs, he could see everyone still gathered in the hallway. Derek’s back was to him.

“She was definitely there?” Chris was asking.

“I recognise her,” Peter answered. “She’s one of them.”

“How could this have happened to her?” Issac asked.

“She’s clearly had a head trauma,” Lydia said. “It’s likely caused some memory loss.”

“Enough for her to forget her own name?” Jackson scoffed. “She’s faking.”

“I don’t think she is,” Boyd said. “Nobody’s that good a liar that they can fool an entire pack with their heartbeat rhythm.”

“Where is she?” Allison asked.

“Tied up, in the bathroom,” came Derek’s voice.

“What?” Allison cried. “She’ll be terrified!”

“Relax,” Peter said. “We gave her something to help her sleep. Should keep her knocked out until Melissa gets here and takes her to the hospital.”

“Okay, so if she can’t remember anything, why the hell are we here?” Jackson asked.

“Two reasons. First, this wasn’t an attack by one of us. We were all accounted for last night.”

“Except Stiles,” Scott said.

“You saw the shape he was in this morning, the shape he’s in every morning,” Danny jumped in. “He wouldn’t have the strength, even if he was still concerned with the pack.”

“I wasn’t saying Stiles did it,” Scott protested. “I just think he should be down here helping us figure this out. He was the only witness.”

“Stiles is irrelevant,” Derek said, and man, if that didn’t hurt Stiles in ways he didn’t care to explore.

“Maybe they did it,” Chris suggested. “It’s happened before in hunter families. One turns away from the fold and the others take them out before they can be betrayed.”

“Seems likely,” Peter said.

“Except for one thing,” Derek said. “ _Little Red_. It’s the only thing she could remember. She didn’t even know what it meant. She just kept saying _Little Red_.”

~o~

Little Red. On the one hand, Stiles was happy. Those two words had the power to make even a hunter destruct. Those two words would find their way back to those who had killed Erica, and they would know that vengeance was coming for them. Those two words made him strong.

But the body belonging to Little Red was crumbling. Every breath was a hiss of pain, every movement torturous. He was weak, and pathetic and human, and these hunters almost took down an Alpha. Pure rage could drive a person only so far, and if Stiles had reached his limit already, then all of his efforts would have been for nothing. Erica would not have her justice. The hunters would either kill him, or the pack would be forced to protect him. And then there was his dad. No, he would not drag anyone else into this war. He would not sacrifice anyone else in Erica’s name. Not Scott, not Danny. Not even Derek. He was alone, and he hurt, but he was still here.

He heard the creak of the stairs and snapped his eyes shut, desperately trying to control both his breath and his heartbeat to give the impression of sleep. He didn’t see who headed up the stairs, although most of the pack had left by now, but as a weight sunk onto the mattress beside him, he heard the familiar sound of leather.

Derek let out a deep sigh, but showed no indication that he knew Stiles was awake.

“I get it,” Derek whispered. “Laura was my Erica. I should have saved her. I should have saved them both.”

Then, Stiles felt the warm press of skin against his. Rough fingertips cradled the side of his face, a thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

“I don’t know what to do,” Derek said, and then he was gone.

As he heard the muffled sounds of Derek joining Issac and Peter in conversation in the kitchen, Stiles’ phone buzzed beside him on the pillow. He squinted against the glare of the screen to see Danny’s name appear alongside a text message.

**Be careful, Little Red.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all mistakes in this chapter may be attributed to the fact that I wrote this IMMEDIATELY after the Eurovision Song Contest. I drank A LOT. This is also the reason why it's shorter than other chapters. Sorry.

Once again, his sleep was fitful and restless. Erica’s face swam into his vision, and the voice of that woman, the one whose mind he destroyed, hissed into his ear over and over, _”Little Red, Little Red.”_

His birthday crept up on him amongst days of staring at his ceiling. He hadn’t trained in the two weeks since the woman was found. His lacrosse stick and his mask still lay hidden in the footwell of his Jeep, and his Dad had taken away the keys. School was out of the question once again, with Danny emailing him all of his assignments. The only time he left his house was for his appointment with Ms Morrell. He didn’t feel much like talking there, but he knew his silence would be cause for concern, so he talked about Seinfeld.

As the two weeks passed, he tried to heal himself, bit by agonising bit, each day, but no matter how much effort and energy he exerted into the spell, Stiles thought he’d come as far as his abilities could take him. This was it, these were his legs for the rest of his life. His constant reminder of his weakness.

His birthday fell on a Saturday, so there was no excuse for the pack not to visit him, however little he wanted to see them. Lydia and Jackson arrived just as he was finishing up breakfast, in his bedroom, with Dad, and that wasn’t too bad. Since getting over Lydia, she’d proven to be quite a good friend, swapping a quip with the Sheriff before he left for the station. Jackson cast a disapproving eye over Stiles’ bedroom, and for the half hour the three of them were alone, things felt as close as they would ever be again to normal. Then Danny arrived. 

“Hey man,” Danny said, lightly patting him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Stiles grunted. Danny zipped open his backpack and began to root around, when Lydia halted him with a hand curled around his wrist.

“No presents until everyone gets here,” Lydia ordered.

“Why do you care so much?” Danny asked.

“She wants to brag about her awesome present-buying skills in front of everybody,” Jackson said. “I’m hungry.”

“Dad left some snacks in the kitchen.”

“How about you guys go grab them?” Danny suggested, his eyes not leaving Stiles.

As Lydia and Jackson made their way downstairs, Danny pulled up the desk chair beside Stiles’ bed and thrust his hand back into his backpack.

“I got you something.”

“Lydia just said…”

“Not for your birthday,” Danny sighed. “Look, if there’s no way I can stop you going after these hunters, I’m not gonna let you go into this blind.” He slipped out a disk and slid it beneath a book on Stiles’ desk. “That’s got records of everybody who moved to Beacon Hills in the past year. Names, addresses, everything except photographs. And here,” he next pulled out a manila folder, and hid it inside Stiles’ bedside drawer, “are the woman’s hospital records. Mrs McCall got a hold of them for the pack, and I made a copy.”

“Well, what do they say?” Stiles asked.

Danny paused, angling his head toward the door. They heard the faint sounds of the front door clicking open and Lydia greeting Scott and Allison. Danny dropped his voice to a whisper.

“They’ve identified her. Celia Wallis, according to DNA tests. But the name Wallis doesn’t show up on the housing records, so we think the family are operating under a different name.”

“How about her memory?”

“Shhh!” Danny hissed. “They’re coming upstairs.”

As the pack filtered in, Scott and Allison followed by Issac and finally Boyd, Stiles twiddled the sheets between his thumb and his forefinger, his gaze flicking back and forth between his friends and the bedside table. The urge to just throw the drawer open and devour every last letter of the Celia Wallis file was overwhelming, but Danny kept the back of his chair pressed firmly against the unit, sipping a cola and looking like the most relaxed man on earth.

“When are you coming back to school?” Allison asked, perching on the corner of his mattress. She had a bag of chips in her hand, and offered one up to Stiles, and he shook his head to decline.

“Soon,” Stiles said. “I’m ready now, but Dad’s being over-cautious.”

“Yeah,” Allison laughed. “Dads.”

“Oh dude, I forgot,” Jackson said. “Coach kicked you off the team.”

“Dude!” Scott snapped.

“Have you ever heard of a thing called ‘tact’?” Lydia said, slapping him on the arm.

“What?” Jackson protested.

“It’s okay, really,” Stiles said. “It’s not like I can play anymore. Who’s the new co-captain?”

“Me,” Issac said.

“Really? Not…”

“Grades,” Scott mumbled. “I’m flunking math.”

“Again?” Stiles asked with a slight laugh. “Okay, birthday time. Gift me, bitches.”

“Maybe we should wait…” Scott said.

“Why?” Stiles asked. Then he realised. “You invited Derek, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Boyd said. “But I don’t think he’ll show.”

“Look, it’s my birthday, and I say ‘fuck Derek’. Now gimme.”

The presents were exchanged, but Stiles paid little attention to them. The only gift that caught his eye was the ornamental knife Boyd presented him with, one he had clearly made in metalwork. Stiles struggled to maintain the nonchalant attitude he’d given to all his other gifts, but inside he was giddy. The knife was a perfect fit for his grip, sharp, and deadly. He hoped he never had to use it.

He was just reaching for Issac’s terribly wrapped gift, when he heard a knock at his window. He didn’t need to turn his head to know Derek was waiting outside. Before he could make any sort of protest, Scott was dashing for the window and letting Derek inside.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Scott cried.

“It’s nothing,” Derek hissed, clutching his side. “I’ll heal.”

“Derek,” Issac began.

“I said it’s nothing,” Derek snapped. He collapsed against Stiles’ bedroom wall, sinking to the floor, blood beginning to stain his shirt. “Thought I found a location for the hunters. It was booby-trapped. No big deal.”

“But you’re hurt,” Allison said.

“I’m already healing, see?” Derek said, and pulled up his shirt to expose his abdomen. Stiles turned away.

“Okay, well what else did you find out?” Scott asked.

“Not much,” Derek gasped. He finally turned his head to Stiles. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered.

“Hey,” Danny chipped in. “Why don’t we get some food. I’m sure Derek could use some to recover his strength.”

Within moments, Danny had ushered everybody out of the room. Everybody, that is, except for Stiles and Derek. Stiles suddenly found his bedsheets very interesting indeed, and tried not to focus on the soft hiss of Derek’s breathing across the room. His fingers twitched. All he wanted was for Derek to leave, so that he could read Celia’s file. So that he didn’t have to say anything to him. So that he didn’t have to remember.

“I got you a present,” Derek said, eventually. He grunted as he pulled himself to his feet. “Luckily, it didn’t get destroyed.”

He placed the gift on Stiles’ lap above the duvet. He’d wrapped it in newspaper. Stiles continued to stare at his fingers.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Derek asked. Stiles said nothing.

“This isn’t my fault, Stiles,” Derek continued. “I tried to save her. I tried to save everyone.”

“Well, you suck at it,” Stiles snapped.

“I miss her too, you know,” Derek said. He was sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed now, trying his best to angle his head to meet Stiles’ eye, but Stiles kept turning his head. “I miss her, and Laura, and all my family. We’re all suffering here.”

“Talk to me when you watch her die!” Stiles yelled, finally meeting Derek’s eye. “Talk to me when your legs are shattered into pieces. Talk to me when you watch someone you care about get shot, and you can’t do anything to stop it.”

“Stiles…”

“You’re an Alpha,” Stiles continued. “You have no idea what it means to be helpless.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to fix things.”

“I think you should leave.”

He fixed his gaze on the present as he listened to Derek heave himself back through the bedroom window. The lead article was about Celia Wallis’ memory loss. His stomach began to turn.

“Hey,” Danny said, appearing in the doorway. “Need me to help you downstairs?”

Stiles left the present unwrapped on his bed. He counted the hours until sunset.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been ages. Like MONTHS. I have no excuses, I'm just terrible.
> 
> I think it's pretty obviously AU for season 3 at this point. On top of everything else, Paige didn't exist, for example.

“Okay, recap. Celia Wallis, born in Georgia in 1981, drops out of school at 17 and moves to Nevada with her family. In ’99, her uncle Jacob gets arrested for murdering a 15 year old boy, and the rest of the family leave Nevada before his trial. Nice. Then no-one hears from them until she shows up in the hospital with amnesia.”

“They’d have used aliases, wouldn’t they?” Danny said, shuffling the papers scattered over Stiles’ desk. Stiles was on his knees in his wardrobe, digging through the boxes hidden there for his red hoodie.

“Well, yeah, but you’d think some of them would get into trouble between ’99 and now.”

“Maybe what happened to Jacob made them more careful?”

“No,” Stiles said. He stood up, took Danny’s wrist and dragged him over to the laptop, sitting down and frantically pulling up tabs on his browser. “I did a bit more digging, looking into murders since ’99 that were similar to the kid Jacob killed. These guys don’t cut wolves in half like the Argents, they completely dismember them, burn the other body parts and leave the head.”

“Gross.”

“So I found another ten, all across the States, one in Canada and one in Belize. And the people who killed them? All alone, none of them have ever received visitors, but they all killed their victims in the same way. I think they would have done the same to Erica if she was alone. Look at these two, Patrick and Angela McAllister, and what’s Angela’s maiden name? Wallis. Or Trent Adams, second cousin of Marie Wallis-Shaw, who died after an animal attack in Kentucky in 2004. These guys have been getting locked up for years, but no-one with the surname Wallis.”

“Did you actually sleep last night?” Danny asked.

“Irrelevant,” Stiles snaps, whipping his chair round to face Danny. “If all these people are getting arrested, and not one of them is called Wallis, what does that tell you?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna say.”

“It tells you that this hunter family is big. And they’re smart. Those called Wallis probably stay hidden controlling everything, and the extended family act as the hitmen and take the fall if they get caught.”

“Then why did Celia Wallis attack you?”

Stiles paused. “I don’t know yet. They must want something really bad from Beacon Hills, and I bet it has something to do with our pack.”

“Scott’s mom says nobody has been to visit her. Do you think they’ve abandoned her too?”

“It’s what people like this do, Danny. They’ll see Celia as weak now, she’s no more use to them. These aren’t family, they’re soldiers.”

At that, he heard a knock at the door. He slammed his laptop closed at once, silently motioning for Danny to help him over to the bed, and just managed to throw Celia Wallis’ files into his drawer before Scott poked his head around Stiles’ bedroom door.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?” Stiles said, trying to sound nonchalant even though the rush to get back in bed made his legs burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hoodie on the floor outside his open wardrobe. Don’t look over there. As if hearing his thoughts, Danny stepped in front of the wardrobe.

“I just wanted to tell you, we’re doing a full sweep of Beacon Hills tonight, the whole pack. If either the hunters or Little Red is out tonight, we’ll find them,” Scott said.

“The whole pack?” Stiles asked. “Even Lydia?”

“Don’t worry, Jackson will keep her safe. Danny, can you stay here and look after Stiles?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbled.

“I know you are,” Scott said, his voice that eerie kind of calm that meant Scott didn’t believe it for a second. “I just don’t want any of us to be alone tonight, okay?”

“I’ll stay,” Danny nodded before Stiles could reply.

“Okay,” Scott said, then sighed. “Stiles, I know after Erica, you don’t want any part of this, but you’re still pack, and you’re still my brother.” Scott strode up towards the bed, took Stiles’ hand in his, and Stiles could let out only a moan of protest before the veins in Scott’s arm turned black and a wave of relief washed over Stiles’ aching body.

“We’ll stop them,” Scott said finally. “For Erica.”

Stiles lay still while Scott clicked the door closed, listened out for his footsteps down the stairs and the closing of the front door, before whipping the blanket off his legs.

“Danny, get my bag.”

“What?”

“My bag. And while I’m in the shower, rub my clothes in dirt to disguise my scent.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Danny said, incredulous. “Stiles, the entire pack is out there. Just let them take care of this. Derek can handle it.”

“And how will he do that, exactly? Even if the Wallises don’t kill every single one of them, what do you think Derek will do to them? Do you think he’ll let them live?”

“Maybe they deserve to die,” Danny argued.

“Yeah, maybe they do, but what then? Derek kills humans, Chris kills Derek because of his code.”

“Mr Argent’s on our side.”

“Only so long as we all follow the code. Apparently Peter gets a free pass for being reborn or whatever, but point is, if by some chance we kill them, the pack dies too. I’m not letting Derek become a killer, and I won’t lose anybody else.”

“And you can do better?” Danny snapped. “Stiles, you’re a mess! They’ll destroy you.”

“Celia didn’t destroy me.”

“You did that to her? Mrs McCall said the blow to her head wasn’t severe enough to cause the amnesia.”

“It wasn’t the blow that did it. I’m the spark, Danny. I can harness magic. Yeah, I didn’t mean to wipe her entire memory, but it’s a good thing, right? With a clean slate, she can start her life again and not be a hunter. And if I can do that to more of them, maybe I can end this without shedding any blood on either side.”

“They’ll kill you. We don’t want to lose you, too. Derek doesn’t want you dead.”

“I’ve been half-dead since they shattered my legs. I may as well try. Now shut up and dirty up my clothes.”

~o~

Danny disappeared while Stiles dressed and looked once more over Deaton’s book, walking over to his cousin’s two blocks away and asking to borrow his car. When he returned, he drove Stiles in silence to the woods, having lain down newspaper so that the dirt on Stiles’ clothes didn’t stain the seat. Danny had rubbed them in the dirt in Stiles’ garden and later heavily sprayed them with air freshener to disguise Stiles’ scent as much as possible.

They pulled up close to the woods, and Danny drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly desperate to talk Stiles around but nothing he could say would change Stiles’ mind. He quickly reassured Danny that he wasn’t going to fight that night; he just wanted to watch and know the rest of the pack was safe.

He’d brought along the baseball bat tonight, and a knife, just in case. Before stepping out of the car, he slipped on his mask, covering the back of his head with his hoodie. Danny switched off the engine, killing the lights so both he and Stiles were shrouded in darkness. Stiles didn’t look back as he entered the woods.

Moving through the trees was difficult with his legs, but Scott taking away some of his pain made the movement easier. He walked at first, until the woods became more dense, and far off, he heard the distant, muffled voices of who he assumed were Isaac and Boyd. He scaled a tree with numerous thick branches, acting almost as a ladder and requiring less strength. Isaac and Boyd appeared to be moving away from him, but he knew the rest of the pack would be close. He hoped Derek would not pass him. He knew Stiles’ scent so well, and his nose was the best of them all.

Forty minutes passed before he heard anything, and Stiles felt his eyelids grow heavy. He pulled out four Adderall from his jean pocket and swallowed them down dry. Just as he gulped them down, Allison and Chris passed directly under his tree. Stiles went deathly still. Chris still seemed like the kind of man who would shoot into the tree first, and the only person he feared more in their pack was Peter.

It was ten minutes later when he heard Lydia scream.

It was close, and to his right, and he dashed through the trees, leaping from branch to branch, with the adrenaline pumping through him quelling the fire in his bones. Not Lydia, his brain screamed. You took Erica, you’re not taking her.

The noise of his moving through the trees would clearly attract attention, but he remained single-mindedly fixed on Lydia’s scream. He had a second when he reached the scene to register the situation before they’d be on him. Jackson lay in a crumpled, unconscious heap, while three men advanced slowly on Lydia. Her head was bleeding, and she held a knife out in front of her with a shaking hand.

He dropped from the tree in front of Jackson’s body, suppressing a howl of pain, and swung his bat at the closest man’s head, blood spraying from his mouth as Stiles made contact. Immediately, another of the three had his arms around Stiles’ neck from behind, and Stiles leaned forward, flipping the man over his head. His mask began to slip in the process, and while he fixed it, the first man had recovered, delivering a blow to Stiles’ stomach. The third guy made a grab for Lydia, and she jabbed forward with her knife, stabbing right through the man’s hand.

“Look out!” she cried, as the second man kicked Stiles in his lower back, causing Stiles to crumple to his knees. Stiles swung his legs around, knocking the man off his feet to fall flat on his back. Lydia pushed away from the third man, dashing forward and stamping down on the crotch of the man on the floor. Stiles wrestled with the first man, who was taller and more broad-shouldered of the other two. He ran forward, slamming the man’s head into a tree. The man crumpled, the two blows to his head knocking him unconscious. Lydia screamed again, as the man she stabbed grabbed her by the waist and threw her to the ground. Stiles leapt over the tall man’s body, bringing the bat down on the man’s crown. The third man, a young blond whose thin face already supported three scars, stood, and fired a gun, but not at Stiles. The bullet hit the unconscious Jackson, and he offered Stiles a twisted smile before he disappeared amongst the trees.

Stiles tried to catch his breath through the small slit in his mask, his grip tightening on his bloodied bat. His back was to Lydia as she ran to Jackson.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Lydia was gasping as she whipped off her jacket and pressed it against the wound. “It’s a wolfsbane bullet.”

Stiles turned slowly, the burn gradually returning to his legs as the adrenaline faded. Lydia looked up at him with pleading eyes, and for a moment he considered going to her, but then he heard the rustle of leaves and the snapping of twigs as the others followed the sound of the commotion. Stiles ran, stumbling more than once as his legs began to give way beneath him. He heard Lydia cry out for Derek and picked up his speed.

As he reached the outskirts of the woods, he knew that nobody was following him, but his momentum sent him careering towards Danny’s cousin’s car. Danny had the engine running before Stiles flung himself into the back seat.

“Drive!” Stiles yelled, ripping the mask from his face. Danny peeled away, as Stiles’ heartbeat hammered in his ears. When they got far away enough from the trees to slow down, Danny met his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“You’re cleaning the seats before I take this car back.”


	8. Chapter 8

Danny parked his cousin’s car halfway around the block, dragging Stiles the rest of the way back to his house. They’d managed to get Stiles undressed, hide his clothes, bat and mask, and get him in the shower before the group of werewolves came crashing through his door. Under the hiss of the shower, he heard Lydia cry out for help, and the light muffle of Danny’s voice. Stiles continued to wash, scrubbing at his skin and hair until he felt raw to wash away his scent. The yelling continued downstairs, but Stiles tried his best to ignore it. The only way to keep the others out of this was to continue acting like he wanted no involvement with them.

He was just pulling himself up from his shower chair when he heard a knock at the bathroom door.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice called out.

“Hang on,” Stiles said, straining to reach his towel. His legs were on fire.

“Need a hand?” Scott asked. Stiles’ discomfort must have been evident in his voice.

“I’m fine, Stiles said, then paused for a moment. “Actually, can you get my crutches?”

He managed to wrap a towel around his waist before Scott stuck his hand through the door, holding out the crutches.

“You can open the door, Scott,” Stiles said. Scott pushed the door open slowly, a look of worry etched on his face.

“Don’t start reading into the crutches,” Stiles said dismissively, even though it was becoming more and more painful to stand, “the floor’s just too slippy.”

“Still,” Scott said, stepping forward as Stiles steadied himself. Without another word, Scott placed a hand on Stiles’ wet arm, absorbing some of his pain.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, and he was genuine.

“We have a situation,” Scott said, guiding Stiles back to his bedroom. “Could use your help.”

“Scott…”

“Just research, I promise.”

“He could still hear Lydia’s panicked voice downstairs. “Let me get dressed, I’ll be right down.”

~o~

When he finally made it downstairs, Stiles was confronted with the sight of Jackson lying on his kitchen floor, still unconscious but breathing, oozing black blood from his wound onto the floor. Peter was bent over him, taking away the pain, and the way Derek was flexing his arm indicated he had just done the same. Danny had Lydia in his arms. At the sight of Stiles, Scott got up to walk him to a chair.

“The hunters shot Jackson with a wolfsbane bullet,” Scott explained.” Isaac and Boyd have gone to get Deaton, and Allison and her dad are trying to find a matching bullet, but we don’t know what kind of wolfsbane they used yet.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, we know Deaton was training you as an emissary before…everything,” Scott continued.

“I can’t heal him,” Stiles interrupted.

“Do you think you can determine the type of wolfsbane?” Derek asked, not meeting his eyes.

“At least, could you make a start before Deaton gets here?” Scott added.

Stiles sighed. “Danny, get me the book out of my backpack.” Danny went to move, but Lydia got to the bag first.

She flipped the book open.

“No!” Stiles cried. He still had the memory spell bookmarked. “I mean, let me do the reading. I have something else for you to do.

Suspicion in her eyes for a brief moment, Lydia snapped the book shut and handed it to him.

“Okay,” Stiles said, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “Jackson’s blood will be infected, so I need you to keep cleaning out the wound. Because of where it is, we can’t block the blood flow with a tourniquet, so it needs constant cleaning. Wolves, keep taking away the pain in turns, and make sure he stays unconscious. The last thing we need is Jackson bitching at us while we try to save him. Danny,” Stiles waited for Danny to come over. He dropped his voice low, counting on the others to be too distracted to listen in. “There’s another book. With…my stuff. I need it.” Danny nodded and dashed up the stairs.

“Okay, Lydia,” Stiles said, flicking to the chapter on wolfsbane, mountain ash, and other plants, “this is gonna sound totally insane, but I need you to smell his blood.”

“What?”

“I need to know what his blood smells like.”

“Let me do it,” Derek said. “I have a better sense of smell.”

“Yeah, great plan,” Stiles couldn’t help but sneer. “And then you might inhale something toxic.” His voice softened at Derek’s surprised look. “Lydia will be safe. You might not be.” Derek nodded back at him, and Stiles’ gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds before Peter telling Lydia to hurry snapped him out of it.

Lydia bent down, and took a reluctant whiff. “It smells like burning,” she said, panicked.

“Burning what?” Stiles pushed. “Burning flesh, burning wood, what?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia answered.

“Lydia!” Stiles yelled.

“Nothing!” Lydia cried. “It’s just like smoke.”

“Good. What’s the consistency?”

“It’s thick, really thick,” Lydia said. She took a huge gulp of air to steady herself. Around her, Peter stepped away from Jackson, for Derek to take his hand again.

“And it’s just black? Not even a hint of another colour?”

“Completely black,” Stiles nodded. He’d been able to rule out four types of wolfsbane already, but there was still a way to go. Danny arrived back downstairs and handed Stiles the second book.

“Okay, Peter, you’re grosser than everyone else so you can do this part. I need you to collect some of the blood, in a glass or something. But don’t use the Number One Dad mug, or I will kill you. Again.”

Peter sneered, but grabbed a plain glass and scraped into it some of the thick ooze from the floor.

“Right, pour some salt on it.” Scott went into one of the cupboards, grabbed the novelty mushroom-shaped salt shaker that was Stiles’ mother’s, and handed it carefully to Peter. Peter shook out a sizable amount into the sample of Jackson’s blood.

“Was something supposed to go bang?” Peter asked.

“One more down,” Stiles muttered. “Okay, something acidic.”

“Vinegar,” Lydia suggested.

Peter added almost half a bottle of vinegar to the glass. At once, it began to bubble. Peter dropped the glass in shock, leaving shards and splatters of black blood all over the kitchen floor.

Stiles paid it no mind. “Great, we’re down to three,” he said, just as Isaac, Boyd and Deaton burst into the house. Deaton looked taken aback to see Stiles in the thick of it, but only for a moment. Scott was already dialling Allison’s number.

“Thick, black, smells of smoke, responded to acetic acid in vinegar,” Stiles relayed to Deaton, then collapsed back against the couch. He zoned out for what happened next, so exhausted was he, though he was vaguely aware of Deaton determining the poison and Allison saying they had a matching bullet in the Argent arsenal. Somehow, he ended up holding Danny’s shaking hand. It took him a while to remember that this was Danny’s best friend. Stiles felt this same terror for Erica, would feel it for Scott or his dad. For Derek…

Deaton had Jackson on his feet, his weight supported by Derek and Scott, and coaxed him awake. Lydia was saying something about a build-up of fluid inside his throat and soon Jackson was spitting out mouthfuls of black blood into the sink. It hadn’t even occurred to Stiles that Jackson might be choking.

“That’s right, spit it all out,” Lydia soothed, rubbing his back.

They got Jackson into a seat, with Lydia applying pressure to the wound to prevent him bleeding all over Stiles’ furniture, when Allison and Chris arrived. It was over in seconds, the antidote administered, Jackson reclining in relief, and Lydia and Danny’s orders to take him home. Mere seconds determining life and death.

“This isn’t a bullet we use,” Chris said. “We found it in Gerard’s old room.”

“Do you think he had any connection to the Wallises?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know,” Chris replied. “But there are some friends of his that don’t know that we have defected. Maybe they’ll know something.”

“We’ll see what we can find,” Allison said.

“Be careful,” Scott whispered, and gave her a brief, soft kiss.

“I’m always careful,” Allison said. They went with Lydia, Danny and Jackson out of the door. Isaac and Boyd were soon to follow, heading back to protect the Hale house from any possible attack, and finally Peter, who made no mention of where he was going. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as Scott, Derek, and Deaton collectively stared at Stiles.

“Thank you,” Derek said eventually. Stiles said nothing in reply, just flicked his eyes downward.

“Hey, why don’t you go to bed,” Scott suggested softly. “I can clean up before your dad gets back.”

While not at all pleased about leaving Derek in his living room,, Stiles was too tired to object. But first, he picked up his books. When he reached the top of the stairs, he eased himself down to the ground, listening intently to the hushed voices.

“Stiles is right,” Derek said. “This fight is going to get all my pack killed.”

“Stiles didn’t say…”

“He didn’t need to say!” Derek snapped. “He wants nothing to do with me or us, because he’s trying to keep himself safe. He’s smart.”

“Derek…” Deaton began.

“No,” Derek interrupted. “The only way to protect my pack is to keep them out of this.”

“Derek, you always said and Alpha is weak without his pack,” Scott argued.

“I’d be weaker if you were all dead.” Stiles saw the shadow of Derek pass through the hall and slam out of the door.

“Go!” Deaton called out, and Scott ran out after him. Stiles was already half-way to his bedroom before the front door had closed. He dug in the box hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe, pulled out the red hoodie and mask, and grabbed both the lacrosse stick and the baseball bat. He slipped an arm into the sleeve, when Deaton’s voice floated in through the doorway.

“Drink this,” he said.

His head whipped around, so fast his vision blurred into streaks of colour. He dropped the mask to the floor with a sharp clang.

“Shit, I…”

“Be quiet,” Deaton said, still holding out the glass of brown liquid. He took a step forward into the bedroom, but came no closer, as if Stiles were some feral cat. “When you become an emissary, you are part of a pack. You would fight for that pack, and you would die for it. I’ve been rendered comatose for Talia Hale more times than I can remember.”

“I’m not an emissary,” Stiles murmured.

“Not yet,” Deaton replied, “but you’re still pack. Scott is still your brother, you still love your Alpha.”

“You’re wrong,” Stiles snapped, his legs beginning to tremble. Maybe if none of this had happened, if Erica wasn’t dead, he could love Derek. But not now, not when every single day Stiles woke up to the possibility of losing someone else he loved.

“I’m never wrong,” Deaton countered. “And one day, you will be Derek’s emissary just as I was his mother’s. So I know there’s nothing I can do to stop you going after him and Scott tonight. But I can help.” He closed the distance between them and pressed the glass into Stiles’ hand.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelled like rotting leaves and cough syrup.

“It’ll numb your pain completely for the next two hours. Your body is still damaged, but your brain won’t know it.”

“Cool,” Stiles said, and gulped down the liquid. It tasted worse than it smelled.

“I don’t have to warn you to be careful,” Deaton said. “But remember, if you’re seriously injured, you won’t feel it, so be wary.”

“Try not to get stabbed in the chest, got it,” Stiles replied, pulling on the filthy red hoodie.

“One more thing,” Deaton said, “if you’re so determined to go this alone, try not to be too conspicuous.”

~o~

There were seven of them, and they’d led Derek and Scott into a trap. Stiles arrived, shrouded by trees, just as one of them lay a handful of mountain ash on the ground, closing a circle that Derek and Scott mustn’t have seen in their rush. The heat from Stiles’ breath hit the metal of his mask and reflected back at him, but it was his only discomfort. He was aware of his legs, could balance and move them, and he could grip the bat and lacrosse stick in his hands, but he couldn’t feel anything.

The seven surrounded Derek and Scott, who were wolfed out, prowling the inside of the circle like caged animals. Stiles quickly scouted out the hunters through his eye-slit. He recognised many of the faces from that night, but again, the one who killed Erica wasn’t there.

Every instinct was telling him to run out there, break the circle and free Derek and Scott to fight, but Deaton’s voice lingered in his mind. _Try not to be too conspicuous._

He hung back, formulating a plan. With the distraction of pain taken away, he tried to hone in his senses to the magic of nature. He was, like all emissaries, merely human, but fully trained emissaries could recognise and harness magic in the air, the trees, minerals, the body and more. Stiles wasn’t fully trained, but he’d worked with mountain ash before. Just not at a distance.

One of the seven had pulled out a whip, but Stiles tried to swallow down the dread in his throat as he focused on the ash. The hunter raised the whip as Stiles felt a vibration in his fingertips. He brought the whip down, cracking against Scott’s back, and with his cry of pain, the mountain ash split, and Derek tackled the hunter to the ground. Two more were immediately on his back, but Derek was positively feral, pummelling Whip Guy’s face until it was covered in blood, the two tugging at his arms merely an annoyance. The other four crowded Scott as he scrambled to his feet. Stiles felt a fury behind his eyes, utterly at one with his surroundings in a way he’d never experienced before. The ground rumbled beneath them, and suddenly two of the hunters were sent flying through the air, smacking against the barks of two trees at the edge of the clearing, mere steps from where Stiles stood. One saw him, dazed as she may have been, and her eyes widened at the sight of his mask. He swung his bat at her, knocking her unconscious, then jabbed out the end of the lacrosse stick to smack against the other’s temple.

Scott was ably fighting the other two, but Derek had gone completely wild. His rage was single-mindedly focused on Whip Guy, so much so that he didn’t notice the tazer until it was too late. Derek fell to the floor, howling and shuddering, and while Whip Guy was long since unconscious, the other two towered over him, a demonic glint in their eyes as one raised the blade.

Scott was too engaged in his fight to reach Derek in time. Derek’s eyes flared red as the blade swung down.

Stiles’ bat connected with the back of Blade Guy’s head with a satisfying crack, and Stiles ducked to the floor as he whirled around, swinging the blade as he went. As he dropped to the floor, he smashed the bat into Blade Guy’s knees, the blade falling out of his hand into the net of Stiles’ lacrosse stick. Stiles hurled the blade towards the trees, dropped the stick, and grabbed a pile of mountain ash to throw into the other hunter’s eyes. Derek was back on his feet. He pulled Blade Guy up by the collar of his shirt and punched him hard in the face. Now pouring with blood, Blade Guy started to laugh, his blood pouring into his wide mouth and smearing over his teeth.

“Derek!” Scott called out, but whatever concerned him, Stiles was oblivious. The hunter he was fighting was wrestling with the wolf mask and had thus far exposed his chin. Stiles sucker-punched him in the stomach, and when the guy doubled over, Stiles smashed the hilt of his bat against his temple. He looked up, adjusting his mask, to see one of Scott’s assailants crumpled in a heap, another trying to crawl away slowly with an obviously broken leg, and Derek, with his claws against Blade Guy’s throat.

Scott was saying something but all that was in Stiles’ ears was white noise. No matter how deserving, no matter that they killed Erica and destroyed his legs, threatened his dad, his pack, Derek, he couldn’t let Derek kill someone in cold blood. From Scott’s expression, he felt the same.

Ignoring every instinct to run, to ensure his anonymity, he stepped forwards, creeping behind Blade Guy as he faced Derek, still laughing, and swung his bat against his crown. As Blade Guy sunk to the ground, Stiles stood frozen, face to face with Derek for the first time in months. Only the mask, now feeling as flimsy as plastic, separated them. Stiles turned to run, but his legs buckled. A shooting pain in his thighs caused him to cry out, and like the hunters, he fell to the ground. It hadn’t even been an hour, but already the pain was returning, and Derek was slowly advancing on him, with Scott not far behind. He tried to scramble to his feet, but only fell down again. His hands, abandoning his bat, felt for purchase on the muddy ground, dragging his useless body back, but before long, his back connected with the bark of a tree and Derek and Scott were inches away from him. Stiles’ vision started to go black as Derek pulled the mask from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! God, this chapter was exhausting, but the one I was most excited to write. DEREK KNOOOOWS.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, neglected this for so long. Basically, I've been really ill since November, and I'm still not well now. Hopefully, this chapter makes sense, given that it's one of the most important ones in the whole fic.

"Get him inside! Quickly!"  
...

"Stiles, man. Wake up."  
...

"What the hell was he thinking?"  
...

"Scott, stop. You can't take anymore. Let me take over."  
...

"His dad can't know."  
...

"He's still not waking up, Derek!"  
...

"Let me take some more pain."  
...

"Take Isaac to your place. Tell Stilinski that Stiles is there too."  
...

"I'll take care of him, Scott."

 

The conversation floated in and out of Stiles' mind like they were whispers in a dream. He was trapped in a vague, semi-lucid state, awake, but dreaming, unable to open his eyes, but still able to see Scott and Derek's veins turn black as they touched him. He felt nothing, like his body was no longer his own, and yet his entire being burned white hot with pain. He was a living contradiction, but he was living.

~o~

The first rays of morning sunlight filtered in through Derek's still-unreplaced window as Stiles wrestled his eyes open for the first time. He lay on the mattress he knew to be Derek's, covered in a scratchy woollen blanket with Derek's leather jacket under his head as a pillow. He was alone, though he heard vague movements downstairs. His first instinct was to flee, to leap out of the window and run, but even with full use of his legs Derek would catch up to him before he even left the porch. Derek could probably hear the quickening of his heart now as he even thought about it, but his legs were like lead, and by the time Stiles could pull himself to a sitting position, Derek had already reached the top of the stairs.

Derek sat silently down on Peter's mattress, directly facing Stiles. He didn't make any eye contact, he just sat, eating a bag of M&Ms and looking more casual than Stiles had ever seen him be before. It was an act. Derek was swallowing down rage and fear. Stiles could tell because he'd been doing it himself for so long.

Stiles remained still while Derek ate, not wanting to be the first one to break the charade by talking, but eventually, the seating pain became too much, and he had to let out a low, anguished groan.

"Here," Derek muttered, setting aside the packet and laying his hand on Stiles' knee. His veins began to darken, and while Derek's face turned a pale white, he kept his eyes fixed on his own arm, while Stiles' gaze never left Derek's face.

He felt the words bubbling up inside him, burning his throat in their desperation to escape, and as Derek let go, they made their escape.

"For God's sake, Derek, would you just say something?"

Derek continued to avoid his eyes. The faint sunlight cast shadows across his face, so that Stiles could barely read his expression. "Deaton gave you a placebo," he said. "He used to give it to me and Laura, when we were still learning to heal ourselves."

"That's not what I meant," Stiles snapped, though it did answer a lot of questions from the night before.

"I know what you meant," Derek said quietly. "Your dad thinks you're at Scott's place with Isaac."

Scott. Fuck. How the hell was he supposed to explain all this to Scott, especially when just sitting in a room with Derek right now made Stiles want to crawl out of his skin.

“Just yell, or howl, or do something,” Stiles demanded. Watching Derek sitting there, eating goddamn M&Ms and looking ridiculous while his whole body was on fire, infuriated him.

“How long?” Derek asked, his voice flat.

“How long, what?” Stiles spat. “How long have I been running around in a mask playing superheroes? Because that’s what you think this is, don’t you? Just the weak, broken human trying to run with the big bad wolves.”

“I think it’s someone with a death wish trying to get themselves killed,” Derek answered.

"You don't get it," Stiles began, his voice filled with hate and loathing, at himself for getting caught, for not being able to run. At Derek for not looking at him.

"Oh, I think I do," Derek scoffed. "You blame me for Erica, and you don't think I'm capable of looking after my own pack."

"You're wrong."

"Then explain it to me, Stiles," Derek snapped, a hint of red in his eyes as they finally met Stiles', "because from what I can tell, you can't even stand to be in the same room as the rest of your pack. You look at us with the same loathing that you feel for the hunters, because Erica died, and we couldn't protect her. We couldn't protect you."

"I'm trying to protect you!" Stiles roared. The explosion of rage and hurt inside him made him double over in pain when the words were released. Derek didn't move at all while Stiles struggled to steady his breath. "These people know me,” he eventually said through gasps. “They threatened to kill my dad if I identified them to the police. They're trying to kill you, and Scott, and I've lost so many people already. I don't want you near me because I want you to be safe."

"How could I not understand that?" Derek asked, his voice still low and rumbling, but softer than before. "I lost my entire family to hunters. I couldn't save them. But I built a pack, and we make each other stronger and protect each other."

"Erica still died."

"So you do blame me."

"No, I blame me!" The pain was so intense now, his vision blurred as tears threatened to escape. "I was trying to save your life when they caught her. And then when I got to her, they broke my legs and cut her in two in front of my eyes. I'm not a damn werewolf, and I couldn't heal myself enough to save her."

"Stiles..."

"And the truth is, even if I could go back, I still would have chosen to save you first, because I fucking love you, Derek. But what if I have to choose again? What if I have to let you or Scott die? Or I have to choose between you and my dad? I can't go through that again, Derek. I can't be near you, because every second I feel like I can't breathe because it's just something else for me to lose..."

Derek's lips were hard against his, his stubble scratching against Stiles' skin. He kissed like he was fighting, hard, guarded, and a little bit desperate. Stiles knew the last feeling all too well, and grasped Derek's shirt between shaking fingers, pulling him close, as if Stiles were trying to get Derek to inhabit his own body. He felt light-headed as Derek's strong hands cradled his head, more healing than any of the pain relief, either medical, magical, or lupine, he'd received before. His whole body felt like it was melting as they both relaxed, the kisses softer and more lazy. Perhaps Derek thought he was hurting Stiles, but it was just the opposite. For the first time in months, Stiles felt like he could sleep.

~o~

“He’s still asleep,” he could hear Derek whisper. “Come by in a couple hours. Bring everyone.”

“Everyone?” Stiles mumbled after Derek hung up, knowing he’d been speaking to Scott. He was still lay on the mattress, curled on his side, like how he slept just after his mom died, only this time a strong arm encircled his waist, and Derek’s breath tickled the back of his neck. It was a comforting position to be in, but only served to make him feel vulnerable. All Stiles wanted was to hide behind his mask.

“We need to stop these hunters,” Derek said. “I need my pack.”

“And I need to sit this one out, right?” Stiles’ mouth was tight, preparing himself for Derek’s ban and wondering how the hell he’d be physically able to defy it.

“No,” Derek was very still behind him. “I can’t stop you being Little Red. But I want you back in my pack.”

“I can’t,” Stiles began.

Derek pulled himself up onto an elbow, gently pulling Stiles to lie on his back and meet his eyes. “I know, you can’t handle losing someone else. But this pack can’t handle losing you, so we work together.”

Stiles sighed. “I’m so tired.”

“We all are,” Derek said. “That’s why we’re going to end this.”

Stiles nodded, the movement feeling alien to him, like his whole body was numb. Which it may have been. Despite the intense flirting between them before Erica had died, they’d never kissed before. Maybe the kiss of an alpha had magical healing powers. He’d ask when all this was over, if they both lived through it.

“Are you comfortable?” Derek asked. Stiles nodded again. “Good. I need a snack.”

And for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Stiles cracked up.

“What?” Derek asked.

“Sorry!” Stiles laughed. “It’s just before, when you were eating M&Ms. It looked ridiculous. I was too mad at you before to realise how hilarious it was.”

“Does it look ridiculous when Scott eats chocolate? Or Isaac?”

“No, but their faces aren’t set to a permanent frown.”

“I’m not frowning now,” Derek said, and he wasn’t. A hint of a smile was tugging at his lips, but not enough to override the worry in his eyes.

The laughter had broken some guard within Stiles, like all the words he’d repressed all these months were finally spilling out of his mouth all at once, and he was powerless to stop them. He felt hysterical, and calm, and fearful, and a myriad of other emotions he’d denied himself for too long. The words tumbled from his lips before he registered what he was saying. “I said that I love you, which was dumb.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Derek said.

“We kinda do,” Stiles replied. Derek’s hand still rested on his stomach, the other propping up his head, “considering we’re on a bed together and we just made out until I was unconscious.” 

“That was six hours ago, Stiles,” Derek said. Still, he made no effort to move.

“Holy god,” Stiles mumbled. Nothing about their whole situation felt serious anymore. Maybe he’d cracked. Maybe he was still out in the woods, bleeding out, and this was his dying hallucination. Between the numbness in his body and the words he couldn’t control, nothing felt real. So nothing he said or did had any consequences.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, so, I love you a bit. Which is stupid.”

“Maybe we should save this conversation until you’re more lucid.”

“No, I won’t want to say anything then,” Stiles said. His whole body felt warm, radiating from the spot where Derek was touching him. It was the only part of him he could feel. Was Derek still taking his pain? He saw no blackness in Derek’s veins, but there was something there. Some spark, some heat. “I talk too much sometimes and I said too much before, because now I can’t pretend that I don’t care about you and that it won’t tear me to pieces if you die. I’m just as scared for you as Scott, and my dad, and if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be.”

“I’m scared too,” Derek said. “I’m always scared. So is Scott, and Lydia too, and everyone. If you’d just stuck with us all year, you’d know just how scared we all are, and how scared everyone is for you.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We end this,” Derek said. “And then we have this conversation again when we’re not fearing for each other’s lives. Or half-crazed with pain and sleep-deprivation.”

“No, I mean now,” Stiles corrected. “You said the pack’s coming in a couple hours. Which means we’ve got a couple hours to kill. And you may not love me back, but we were making out before so you must like me a little bit.” Though he knew he was awake, everything about this felt like a dream. And the Stiles of his dreams was much more bold than the broken, traumatised Stiles of reality.

“I told you,” Derek replied, “we’ll talk when this is over.”

He swooped down for another kiss, lighter than before, and tentative, like Derek was just as scared to be doing this as Stiles felt. The heat that was flooding his body rushed to his lips, until all he could feel was Derek’s kiss. He was at once intoxicated, but unsure, wanting to both pull Derek closer and push him away. Eventually, Derek took the option away from him, kissing still slowly, but deeper, a deep, low moan vibrating in his throat. That moan drove Stiles wild with desire, but his body felt too numb to take things any further. He was reminded, suddenly, of being paralysed by the kanima, his body pressed against Derek’s chest, and while he couldn’t feel it, still being taken in by Derek’s overwhelming presence. This was the same. He could barely feel Derek’s touch, but he never wanted him to stop touching him. In that moment, he realised what he’d learnt about Scott when he was first bitten: that he would do anything to keep Derek safe. That he would kill for Derek Hale.

The part of him that was Stiles felt relief and rest, but Little Red was awake, and more ferocious than ever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter while on holiday from my kindle, so any typos are the fault of auto correct fail and will be fixed when I get home.
> 
> Getting to the climax now. I am excited. It's also basically just a chapter of talking, ready for the action of the next chapter.

When he awoke, there were hands on him, but they were not Derek's. Dr Deaton offered Stiles his characteristic pleasant-but-mysterious smile as he rubbed Stiles's calf between his hands.

"So what's this? A mystical healing blossom from a magic tree?" Stiles asked, his voice hoarse from his lengthy sleep and equally lengthy make-out session.

Deaton looked amused. "It's massage oils. No fake cures from me today."

"Got any real cures in your bag of tricks?" Despite the lack of any druid magics, what Deaton was doing was having an effect, with his calves feeling warm and relaxed, the tension he always felt in the muscles almost unnoticeable.

Deaton didn't answer his question. "Scott's downstairs. Derek took the rest of the pack into the woods so you could talk."

"Is he mad?" Stiles asked, more than a little nervous. Keeping this from Derek was one thing, but Scott was his brother. The only way this could be worse was if it was his dad waiting for an explanation in Derek's dilapidated house.

Deaton once again ignored Stiles' question. "Do you need me to help you downstairs?" he asked, releasing Stiles' leg. Stiles shook his head. This conversation was one he didn't want the vet to listen to.

He took the stairs slowly, both because of his legs and the fact that everything in Derek's house was a structural hazard. Scott waited at the bottom of the stairs, his face unreadable, just waiting for Stiles to make the descent. Putting pressure on his right leg had him hissing in pain, but the left was little more than the dull ache he'd become accustomed to, so he hobbled down the stairs, using his right side as little as possible. As he neared the bottom, Scott silently hooked an arm under Stiles' armpit, supporting his weight for the last few steps. Derek had invested in two antique chairs, alone in the middle of his half-renovated kitchen since he'd not yet bought a table. Scott seated Stiles in one, then turned the other chair to face him.

"So, you're Little Red," Scott said.

"Yeah," Stiles said quietly, looking at his feet.

"You know I think you're a fucking idiot, right?" Scott continued. Then he laughed. "Didn't know you were also a total badass!"

Stiles' head shot up. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah dude! Where did you learn to fight like that? That was like Allison levels of ass-kicking!" Scott's face was giddy, like Little Red was a really awesome action star and not his damaged best friend risking his life.

Stiles just shrugged, incredulous to Scott's reaction.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Scott asked eventually. Stiles told him the same as he told Derek, he wanted to keep them all safe.

"Pack keep each other safe," Scott said matter-of-factly, then mercifully dropped the subject. Stiles could read on Scott's face his concern, but also knew that Scott would do anything for Stiles, and if that meant cutting him some slack for the time being, then so be it. "You threw mountain ash in a guy's face! That was so cool!"

"Yeah," Stiles replied, just focused on his relief that Scott wasn't pushing the issue. "What happened to the hunters?"

Scott's froze up suddenly, his eyes wide. How he kept his lycanthropy secret from Melissa for so long was a mystery, Scott couldn't lie for shit. "Maybe we should wait for the pack."

Okay, that sounded bad. But the return of the pack brought with it it's own problems. "Have...Have you...?"

"Spoken to Derek? Didn't need to, his scent's all over you," Scott smiled again. "You lucky boy."

"Shut up," Stiles groaned, at which point the pack pulled through Derek's door en masse. Derek was silent, but met Stiles' gaze at least, while Isaac and Boyd were pointedly quiet. The Argents were deep in a discussion about a malfunctioning taser, followed by Lydia and Danny. Jackson brought up the rear, and without missing a beat, cried, "You fucked Derek!"

Danny sputtered and Lydia gasped. Allison and Chris just looked at Stiles in mild surprise. Clearly, what all the wolves had picked up on, they hadn't shared with the humans.

"I did not!" Stiles protested. Then, a little quieter, "We just made out."

To Stiles' surprise, Boyd offered him a nod with what looked like pride, while Danny whispered "I knew it!"

"That's not important," Derek interrupted, just as Deaton descended the stairs, looking as amused as Lydia currently appeared. Still, Derek made his way over to Stiles and placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder, a silent warning to his pack not to make fun of their Alpha's make-out buddy. "Let's get this out of the way. Stiles is Little Red, I've already told him how dumb he is for doing this, and now he's back with the pack. Any questions?" Jackson's hand immediately shot in the air, but Derek ignored it. "Okay, onto business. One of the Wallises died last night."

"What?" Stiles cried. Fuck, he'd killed a human, he was a murderer. His dad would have to arrest him and Jesus shit what had he done.

Derek's grip was firm on his shoulder. "It wasn't anything you did," he insisted.

"The Wallises are notorious in hunter families," Chris piped up. "They make the Argents look tame." Allison shot him a pointed look. "How we used to be," he added quickly.

"They see a failure as unforgivable," Deaton continued. "Failures are forced from the family by any means necessary."

"Basically, we think the family head killed one of the hunters for not killing you, Scott and Derek," Lydia said.

"We don't know what happened to the others," Derek added.

"Most hunter families have about fifteen people, but the Wallises number closer to fifty," Chris said. "Anyone is expendable."

"Dad reached out to some hunter friends who don't know we defected," Allison said. "They think at least thirty-five of the Wallises are in Beacon Hills, all with fake identities."

"I suspect the message has got out to them that the Argents aren't hunting in Beacon Hills anymore, so they've decided to claim the territory," Chris said. "We think Gerard told them, but I'll deal with Gerard in my own time."

At that moment, Peter burst through the door with his usual dramatic flair, and Derek winced as the door creaked on its rusty hinges. Despite the fact that it was Peter, there was a warmth in Stiles' chest as the pack united. Except they weren't united because Erica had gone. Was that what happened in the pack? When one dies, is the connection to them forgotten?

Did the rest of his pack feel incomplete without him?

"Another Wallis is dead," Peter announced with a barely hidden glee. He held his hands up at Scott's glare. "I didn't do it!"

"Was it aconite poisoning?" Deaton asked. Peter nodded. "Killing hunters with wolfsbane. The ultimate humiliation."

"Yeah, there's a huge cluster of wolfsbane to the east of the forest," Peter added. "Don't go there. Trust me." Peter shook his arm, and only then did Stiles notice the black veins. Derek's grip on his shoulder remained, and tightened, but nobody went to Peter's assistance. Peter shrugged and helped himself to the antidote in Deaton's bag. "Oh hey, Little Red's here!"

"How did you know?" Derek growled. "I didn't tell you."

"Oh, I've known about Mr Stilinski's extra-curricular activities for a while. It's been fun waiting for you to figure it out."

Stiles wasn't even surprised. Nothing about Peter surprised him any longer. But Derek was a ball of quiet fury. Stiles could feel the claws begin to emerge, and he had to do something before they embedded in his shoulder. Stiles brought his arm up across his body to rest over Derek's hand, and he heard Derek's deep breath. He also heard Danny's quiet "aww!" at what, in other circumstances, probably looked like quite a romantic gesture.

"Remind me to use you as a shield if they start firing wolfsbane bullets at me," Derek snapped, before letting the matter go. Neither Stiles nor Danny decided to bring up that Danny knew too.

In Derek's rage, Scott took it upon himself to take control, stepping up a couple of Derek's stairs to catch their attention. "If they're filling the forest with wolfsbane, they're ready to attack once and for all. We need to end this, soon."

"How?" Isaac asked. "Chris has made it very clear that he'd kill any of us that killed a human, pack or no pack. But I don't see any other way to stop them."

"I can," Boyd said eventually, and Stiles wondered whether his silence was just him being Boyd, or him being as broken about Erica as Stiles was. "Celia Wallis. The only thing she could remember was 'Little Red'. Did you do that to her?" He looked directly at Stiles, and for the first time in months, it was a look of hope.

"I didn't mean to," Stiles began, addressing Boyd directly. "There was this thing, in one of Deaton's books, about erasing a memory. She was only supposed to forget me."

"Do you think you could do it again?" Scott asked. "I don't know about you guys, but giving this family amnesia is a much better way to remove them than murder."

"Don't you think it'd be a little traumatic forgetting your entire life?" Isaac said. "I mean, you'd lose your own identity."

"Under the circumstances, I think trauma is exactly what they deserve," Stiles replied darkly, though he honestly could not remember how the previous memory wipe backfired so spectacularly.

"Okay, we're doing this tonight," Derek announced. "Peter can lure them to the house, where we know the territory. The wolves will fight them at close range. Allison and Chris protect the perimeter, make sure no-one escapes."

"Shoot to hurt, not kill," Allison nodded.

"Stiles..."

"I know, stay out of it," Stiles muttered.

"Actually, no," Derek said. "You'll be in the house with Deaton and Lydia. We'll try to incapacitate them in some way, Danny can run out and drag them inside, then the three of you do whatever it is you did to Celia."

"I don't remember what I did to Celia," Stiles protested.

"There was probably a mistake in the measurements of the potion," Deaton mused. I'll figure it out."

"I want you involved," Derek said quietly, despite the fact that every wolf in the room would hear his words. "But I need you to be safe." Derek quickly cupped his hand around Stiles' cheek, but moved away, conscious of the others in the room. Lydia elbowed Jackson for his mocking grin.

"One problem," Peter said. "Despite my considerable good looks, I wouldn't get the entire Wallis family following me. We need better bait."

"Like what?" Isaac asked.

"Like Little Red."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost finished! I've only been writing this thing since the end of season 2!

Little Red ran through the forest, but it was the hunters at his tail. Seven of them led a pursuit behind him as he zipped through the trees, bright red hoodie a beacon of light through the shadows. But he was faster, more agile, and more familiar with these woods. His mask glinted in the moonlight, and that flash of light alerted Stiles to his approach. He pushed back from the window as Isaac dashed up the steps of the Hale porch, ripping off the mask and throwing it to Danny, who was waiting by the door. Danny tossed it over to Stiles (even indoors, they needed to protect his identity) as Scott, Derek, Boyd and Peter arrived in the clearing, each followed by their own cluster of hunters. The mask fixed over his face, Stiles returned to the broken window, and a quick count told him that, minus Celia and the men from the other night, the majority of the Wallis family had to have gathered. Getting Melissa to leave a message from "Little Red" in Celia's hospital room must have worked.

And yet, the one who delivered the killing blow to Erica was nowhere to be seen.

He noted the lightest of rustling in the trees as Allison took position (Chris would have been doing the same to the rear of the house), but no hunters looked around. They were too busy mocking Derek for the death of his "bitch". Boyd snarled and the hunters laughed. Stiles choose to filter out the noise.

"Everything is prepared," Deaton said. Danny was fidgeting on his feet by the doorway, and Lydia twisted her skirt between her fingers, perched on the top of the stairs, one of Allison's crossbows at her side. "Remember, nature will do what it needs to. We just need to will it on."

"You do the nature magic," Stiles said, his voice muffled by the mask. "I'll do the hitting in the head."

"A good emissary would do both," Deaton smirked. "Let me land one blow."

A howl, one that Stiles recognised as Scott's, alerted them to the start of the fight. Danny pressed himself back against the wall by the open door, hiding himself in the shadows. Stiles returned to the window, thankful that it was dirty and cracked enough to disguise his appearance from the commotion outside, but giving him enough of a vantage point.

Four hunters had launched themselves at Scott, one wielding a long metal chain which he hurled at Scott's legs, tripping him, but Scott recovered quickly on his feet and elbowed his assailant in the chin. Boyd dived into the action, eyes blasting gold with fury, and with one bone cracking punch, a tall, thick, bearded man crumpled to the floor.

"Danny!" Stiles cried, and Danny barreled out of the door, ducking and diving between the warring wolves and hunters, making use of his lacrosse training. His legs wobbled as he lifted the man, but he kept moving until he was through the door, Lydia hurrying down the stairs and pointing the crossbow out of the entrance. Deaton quickly went to work, putting the mixture of herbs into the man's slack mouth, then covering both his nose and mouth until he could be sure the mixture had been swallowed. The man was beginning to stir, and Stiles picked up his metal bat, bringing it down with a crack against the man's head. He collapsed again, and Deaton quickly checked his vital signs before nodding. The last thing they wanted to do was to kill.

"We have another!" Lydia yelled. Stiles ran back to the window, the burn starting to build in his legs but adrenaline overriding it for now. Danny sprinted out again. There were four on the floor, two by Derek's feet as he battled a third armed with an axe, the 14-year old girl, conscious but restrained by Peter, and one crawling slowly toward the trees, arrows sunk into both bloodied calves. She stretched her hand forward, and Allison shot another arrow through her palm. Stiles couldn't help but grin.

With the Argents protecting the perimeter, Danny made for the child, taking her from Peter before he was ambushed by another, or, knowing Peter, he jeopardized their whole plan by killing her. Danny pulled her, kicking and screaming, from Peter's arms, and raced for the house, pushing her into Deaton's grip and running out for the arrow-shot woman. Lydia fired the crossbow out of the door, but at who or what, Stiles didn't know.

The child scratched at Deaton's arms, but she was unarmed, and Deaton's expression only belied mild discontent with the situation. Stiles was reluctant to bash this one in the head, but then he remembered her presence at Erica's death, and brought the bat down, a little softer than with the first man but enough to do the trick, provided he and Deaton had measured this correctly.

By the time they'd dealt with the child, there were four others waiting for them in the doorway. Isaac had given up the fight, leaving it to the other wolves, to help Danny, and the flash of his red hoodie was gone in a blink as he went out for another. Lydia stood guard over them with the crossbow, the arrow-shot woman still awake but crying with pain, the other three in some sort of confused semi-consciousness. As Deaton and Stiles went to work, Stiles heard the firing of bullets that meant either the Wallises had abandoned hand-to-hand combat in favour of shooting the wolves, or Chris Argent had entered the fray. Either way, the Wallises would fight fire with fire.

"Tell Danny to stop," Stiles ordered. "Isaac can handle being shot, he can't."

Lydia nodded, and handed Danny her crossbow when he returned with another, this one almost Gerard's age. Stiles felt sick just looking at him, remembering the beating he suffered at Gerard’s hands. He didn’t think he’d ever face anything more horrific than his kidnap. He was wrong.

Lydia hurried to the window. "Where the hell is Jackson?" she hissed.

"He's not there?" Stiles cried. It hasn't even occurred to him to check that Jackson had arrived with his own cluster of hunters.

"It's okay," Danny said. "He's at the back of the house. There's about seven that he's taking care of with Chris. Not been able to get to them yet."

A hail of gunfire shot through the air, more than just one gun. The Wallises had opened fire, and he could only pray that the bullets weren't laced with wolfsbane.

A crash of glass sent Danny spinning the crossbow towards the back of the house, Stiles raising his bat in defense.

"All down," Jackson said, sticking his head through the window. "I'm going to the front, get them in."

Stiles and Lydia went to drag the fallen seven in the house, Stiles outside, padding the limp bodies up to Lydia's arms, and now the burn was coming on strong. Chris made his presence known with a rustle of branches, and kept watch as they hurried the seven inside. Some of the seven had been shot, but true to his word, Chris shot to incapacitate, not kill. The fire in Stiles’ body was cooled by the rush of adrenaline, and as Lydia finally pulled him inside, he felt strong on his feet then he had in months.

Then it all fell down. Derek's voice roared Scott's name, and all was silence.

Stiles ran outside just as one of the remaining hunters closed a circle of mountain ash. Boyd was down, a bullet in his leg, and blood poured from Jackson's hairline. And there, outside the circle, was Scott, held by two hunters, a third removing his sword from a sheath.

There was barely time for Stiles to breathe before he ran forward. "Finally, Little Red is out to play with the big bad wolves," the hunter mocked, but Stiles wasn't listening. He tore through the others to the edge of the circle and broke the mountain ash barrier, just as Allison's ring dagger sunk into the shoulder of one of Scott's captors. Scott twisted, delivering an uppercut to the other attacker, while Derek tackled the sword-wielder to the ground. Allison dashed around the clearing, gathering up her arrows back into her quiver to re-use, while Chris emerged from the side of the house to take down one from behind. Isaac and Danny dragged Boyd inside, and Isaac re-emerged, claws out and howling. Lydia fired her crossbow, her aim a little shaky, but still catching one of the hunters in the knee. Now in the fray, there were many more hunters still standing than there seemed to be from the perspective of the house, or maybe they'd underestimated the sheer size of the Wallis family. After all, Erica's murderer still wasn't to be seen. What if Chris had been wrong? What if there were a hundred of them?

Out in the open, unarmed and exposed, Stiles' vulnerability suddenly hit him, and that's when his legs started to give away beneath him. Three rounded on him as he fell, cruel, mocking faces split into sickening grins. One reached for Stiles' mask while another raised a gun. Stiles stared down the barrel of the gun through the eye-slit in his mask, and he felt no fear or regret, only pure, all-consuming hate.

Derek's fangs sunk into the third hunter's arm, and without hesitating for a second, the one with the gun fired a bullet into his companion’s stomach. Not even time for the bite to take effect. The hunter collapsed on top of Stiles' own body. The first casualty. If these guys shot to kill so easily, why were they taking so long to take his pack down?

They were playing with them, like a cat plays with a mouse.

Ritualistic was the word that entered Stiles' head. Erica had been severed in two, like Laura Hale before her. Allison had once told them that this was the traditional way to kill a werewolf, the only sure way to know they were dead.

It didn't matter how many of the family they took out, more would take their place. And they'd keep fighting until the wolves were too tired to fight back, or too shot full of bullets, and then cut them all down. He wouldn't put them passed doing the same to the humans too.

There was only one way, Stiles thought, to stop it. Like the wolves, they had to take down the Alpha. Another would take their place, but in that moment of confusion, they could just get the advantage. And he'd bet money that Erica's killer was the one in charge.

Peter lifted the body of him and helped Stiles to his feet. Thank god it had been Peter, because only Peter could do what Stiles wanted him to do. Only Peter could kill a human in cold blood, and Stiles was about to order a man's execution.

"The leader..." was all Stiles managed to get out, but Peter was already ahead of him.

"I'll do it," he said with a nod. "Just tell me who. And make sure Chris doesn't kill me."

But first, Stiles needed to draw out the leader.

He stepped into the centre of the clearing, concentrating on flames and combustion. He felt heat beneath his feet, crawling up his legs. Soon, he was encircled by fire, and he removed the mask. The air within the circle was fresh and clear, feeling cool on his now-exposed face, but around him, the flames grew more violent by the second.

The first thing he saw was Derek's wild, panicked eyes as he fought to rescue Stiles from the flames. Scott grabbed him and held him back, while pack and hunter stood frozen. The flames grew taller, but none licked at Stiles' body. He couldn’t hold this for long, but it was enough to catch someone’s eye, and that someone was here.

Through the smoke, Stiles saw the approach of a shadowed figure out of the trees. Allison rounded her bow on him, but no move was made on either side. His face was the one that had been burned into Stiles' mind for months. Erica's killer.

"Nice to meet you, Little Red," he grinned. "Again."

Derek growled as he struggled against Scott's grip, and he was thankful that Scott recognised how little he needed Derek's intervention right now. They had to stay safe. All he needed was for Peter to get in position.

Stiles glared at the leader, metal mask scolding his hand from the warmth of the flames. The leader took another step forward, and the flames grew once again.

"An emissary," the leader said with an impressed nod. "Deaton getting to old for this?"

Stiles had no reply. He was too busy watching from the corner of his eye as Peter silently moved his way around the circle.

"I'd love to hang around and give you a melodramatic villain speech, but I have wolves to kill," the leader said with a mock sigh. "But first, Little Red, a surprise."

Two hunters brought a figure out into the clearing, a bag covering his head. The leader approached Allison, snapped her wrist and took the ring dagger from her new-limp hand. Chris shot at him, but the bullet only clipped the leader's shoulder. Scott and Derek ran forward, but it was too late. The leader sunk the knife into the gut of the man. He removed the hood.

His father's eyes were wide with pain, and with fear. Stiles screamed.


	12. Chapter 12

The next thing he could recall was the sensation of a limp hand in his, a hard surface flat against his back, and an ache in his shoulders where he hunched over. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and heard the steady beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor. The image of his father emerged from the fog of sleep, and at once he was leaping forward from the plastic chair.

“He’s alive.” It was Derek’s voice, coming from a dark corner where he stood, arms folded, half-hidden in the shadows. “They said family only, but you were so out of it that Melissa snuck me in with you. Scott and everyone else is outside.”

“What happened?” Stiles asked quietly.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember that dagger going into my dad, and then nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if the sight of his dad’s eyes wide open in shock and pain would simply disappear.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Derek said, stepping forward and resting his hands at the foot of the Sheriff’s bed. “You screamed, Stiles, and it was like the world just…stopped. The Wallises, they all froze, and then they just fell to the ground.”

“You mean they-“

“Don’t worry, they’re alive,” Derek said. His gaze was fixed ahead, on the IV running into the Sheriff’s arm, and his fists clenched tighter around the bed frame. “Nobody knew what was happening, except Lydia. She said it was like she could feel every atom of the air around her when you screamed.”

“That’s because she’s a Banshee,” Stiles said. “She doesn’t know it yet.”

“I thought as much,” Derek nodded. “Anyway, after that you collapsed too. So Argent and Jackson stayed behind to clear up the scene, and the rest of us rushed you and the Sheriff here. And now here we are.

“What did Melissa say?” Stiles asked warily, feeling in his bones that the news wouldn’t be good. “Will he be okay?”

“We don’t know.”

~~~

Through the night, Melissa snuck each of them in for five minutes at a time. Scott hugged him, warm and solid. Allison gave him updates on Argent’s progress that sounded like pure white noise. Lydia brought food that he didn’t touch, and Danny brought a change of clothes and his pain meds. Nobody knew where Peter disappeared to after the fight, but Isaac was out trying to locate him. Through it all, Derek refused to leave his dark corner, like he was waiting to leap out of the shadows at some new threat. Boyd was last to enter, leaving Stiles’ mask on the floor by Stiles’ feet.

“We won’t let them take him like they did Erica,” he said, and left.

Twelve hours after Stiles woke up, a day and a half after the stabbing, Stiles whispered, “he’s not waking up.”

“He’s recovering, Stiles,” Derek said.

“No, the blade did no major damage to his organs, he should be awake by now.”

“What are you getting at?”

“That dagger was meant for one of the pack,” Stiles said. He could see the red string connecting elements in his mind. “What if there was something coating it? Wolfsbane or kanima venom?”

“Wolfsbane wouldn’t affect a human being this way,” Derek answered. “The paralysis would have worn off.”

“Well something magical, or something we’ve never seen before!” Stiles exclaimed, feeling himself growing more and more hysterical. The red string was a tangled mess. The sharp pain in his legs returned; he hadn’t touched the medication Danny brought. “There has to be something!”

“Maybe you’re right, but that’s the point. We don’t know what it is.”

“Maybe Deaton –“ Stiles began.

“No,” Derek cut him off. “Deaton’s let you get away with enough dangerous shit this year. But the longer the Sheriff is out, the worse it will be.” He sighed. “Give me your hand, Stiles.”

In that instant, all Stiles wanted to do was punch Derek in his stupid face for being so negative, for giving up, for speaking the truth. But instead he found his palm slipping into Derek’s. Derek took the Sheriff’s arm in his other hand, and held Stiles’ gaze.

“I probably love you too, by the way,” he said, and then his veins turned black.

Stiles struggled to yank his arm away as Derek’s body began to shudder, but the grip was too strong. A rumbling began in Derek’s throat, but it grew louder and louder as his grip tightened, evolving into an ear-splitting howl. His whole body was convulsing, head thrown back and skin a deathly grey colour. Stiles didn’t realise he was crying until tears started to blur his vision. In Derek’s eyes, Stiles made out a flash of ice blue. Then Derek fell.

~~~

Derek’s body was covered in a sheen of sweat as Stiles cradled him on the hospital floor. He whispered Derek’s name over and over like a prayer, hands on Derek’s face, his chest, his hair. He didn’t look up at the sound of a bang behind him, but soon Scott was by his side, eyes wide in alarm.

“What the hell happened?” Scott gasped. “Is he dead?”

“Still here,” Derek groaned, his eyes still closed.

“Oh thank god,” Scott panted. “I was just talking to Allison and my eyes glowed red! What the hell, man? I thought they’d killed you!”

“It chose you,” Derek said through heavy breaths. “Good.”

“Chose? Wait – am I the Alpha?”

“He can’t be the Alpha,” a voice said. “I’ve seen him eat spaghetti off the floor.”

“Dad!” Stiles cried, leaving Derek to Scott and taking his father’s hand.

“Hi son,” he said, then grinned groggily. “Hi werewolves.” Scott gave a sheepish wave.

“What did you do?” Stiles asked, looking down at Derek.

“A sacrifice,” Derek answered. “All wolves can take away pain, but an Alpha can heal another person if they sacrifice their position and power.”

“You sacrificed being an Alpha for my dad?” Stiles asked.

“Not just him,” Derek said. “Do your legs hurt?”

For the first time, he realised that the tremendous, constant pain he felt had gone.

“Derek…” Stiles began.

“I would have done it sooner for you,” Derek said, “but I was scared Peter would become the Alpha. Good thing I held off.” His hand wrapped around the tattoo on Scott’s arm. 

“You’ll be a great Alpha.”

“So,” the Sheriff said, wincing as he pulled himself more upright, “should I be more angry that I got stabbed by a psychopath, that my son is blatantly in love with a werewolf which he kept secret from me, or that he’s running around town as a goddamn vigilante?”

“None of the above?” Stiles tried. The Sheriff rolled his eyes.

“I’ll get my mom,” Scott said. He paused in the doorway. “You are so being my pack’s emissary, dude.”

~~~

Stiles was alone, with Derek forced into a hospital bed by Melissa and his father sleeping. The others had all gone home for rest, and the world felt too quiet. For the first time in a year, his mind was not racing with thoughts of revenge and pain. His body was at peace. Erica would never be back (at least, he wouldn’t allow her to return as Peter did, Lydia had been through enough) but she’d been avenged.

The silence was terrifying.

“Stiles?” An unfamiliar voice called. A man stood in the doorway, probably the same age as Derek, but dressed in a matching uniform to his father. “I’m Jordan Parrish, one of your dad’s deputies. Can I come in?”

Stiles nodded, and Parrish closed the door quietly behind him. “The nurses tell me he woke up.” Parrish said. “How’s he doing?”

“Better,” Stiles answered warily. A deputy wouldn’t be here purely for his father after what he’d done to the Wallises.

“Your dad’s told me a lot about you, nice to put a face to the name.” He smiled, wide and genuine, his piercing eyes bright with mischief. “Anyway, I can’t stay. The darndest thing just happened. An entire family of wanted criminals were found with an arsenal of weapons, deep wounds, and no memories at all, by the cliff. We suspect a mass cult brainwashing and attempted suicide pact. Bet that Celia Wallis ran away because of it. Must be the full moon, huh?” And with a brief, knowing look, he was gone.

~~~

The steady rise and fall of a warm chest beneath his cheek roused him to consciousness, foreign fingers carding through his too-long hair. The hospital bed was narrow, forcing their legs to entwine and their bodies to press together. It was a little too hot, but Stiles had no intention of moving away any time soon.

“Hello,” Derek murmured.

“W’time ‘sit?” Stiles groaned, blinking away sleep.

“Around noon. Why aren’t you with your dad?” Derek's skin was still paler than usual, still glistening, but he no longer looked on the verge of death. Stiles had seen Derek on the verge of death too many times now.

“Melissa kicked me out. Wanted to see you.”

“Good,” Derek said, and closed his eyes again.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep again, Sour Wolf,” Stiles insisted, slapping Derek’s chest. “What the hell were you thinking, sacrificing your power for me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, running around as a masked vigilante for a year?”

“Touche." Stiles curled in closer. "Still, I can’t believe you risked Peter becoming the Alpha for us.”

“Scott’s the Alpha now, this isn’t a conversation we need to be having.”

“Yes it is!” Stiles said.

“Fine, even if it had chosen Peter, I wouldn’t have regretted it for a second. As soon as I found out you were Little Red, I knew I was going to do this, and then with your dad… Stiles, I know the pain of that loss.”

“I suppose I can forgive you for my magical new legs. The improved flexibility will prove useful in our future.” He waggled his eyebrows, eliciting the first genuine laugh he’d ever heard from Derek.

“You okay, Little Red?” Derek asked eventually.

“I think I finally am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done! I've been sitting on this for ages, but my laptop broke. Now I've got a shiny new one, let's finish this!


	13. Epilogue

Not too long after he had created the chessboard, he was removing players from it. Allison, Chris and Isaac were the first go. After graduation, and breaking up and making up with Scott three times, Allison took off for France with her father to try and prevent the European Argents becoming anything like the Wallises (which, given the Wallises were only a step above Gerard and Kate for crazy, was a task Stiles did not envy). Isaac went along, saying it was for a new adventure, but everyone knew he and Allison had a “thing”. What they didn’t know was whether or not it had started while she was still with Scott, or even if the three had a thing together at one point. For all that Scott and Stiles trusted each other, he was keeping his lips shut on that one as payback for all Stiles’ secrets, which Stiles supposed was fair.

Lydia and Jackson were removed next, Jackson heading to London with his family, Lydia to Oxford and staying with the Whittemores at the weekend. New players were added as Stiles began his senior year for the second time. There was Kira, the badass kitsune who was teaching Stiles how to wield a katana instead of a baseball bat, and who Scott had fallen literally head over heels for, all the way down the stairs when Stiles brought her home to study. And then they met Malia, a were-coyote who had been living with Peter all this time in a separate apartment downtown, because she was his secret daughter who survived the fire, and it took a hell of a long time for him to explain that one to his father. There was Liam, some wolfy freshman brat who Scott had grown annoyingly attached to. And then he added Deputy Parrish, who it turned out was a Phoenix, but everyone was still too baffled by Malia to really care.

Scott and Derek switched their positions on the board, and Boyd remained a knight, loyal and steadfast as ever. Danny wanted his new college boyfriend on there, an Alpha called Ethan from Oregon, but he had a pack of his own. Plus, Stiles didn’t like him at all.

When Stiles tried to put his label on a pawn, Derek took it from him and stuck it on a knight.

The players that had been removed, Stiles kept to the side with their labels, still pack and still ready to be played at any time. Even across the continents, the McCall pack was the strongest it had ever been. The only piece he took away for good was Erica’s. This he kept in his pocket, and twirled between his fingers whenever he felt like he couldn’t breathe, which was now only four nights out of seven.

He couldn’t breathe right now. His dad was waiting in court for the verdict, and Stiles remembered how cold it was with the air-conditioning on high as he sat there in the witness stand, his eyes meeting the blank, confused stare of the man who cut Erica in two. Stiles had robbed him, robbed all the Wallises, of their memories and their sanities. It was the least they deserved, but Stiles was not a killer.

His phone buzzed, and Stiles almost leapt out of his seat. Derek checked the screen, having taken the phone from Stiles’ trembling hands when he’d obsessively checked it for the 157th time.

“It’s Scott,” Derek said, letting out a sigh of his own. “He’s just finishing up with Deaton and should be here soon.”

In the Stilinski kitchen, Kira, Malia and Liam gossiped quietly. Stiles understood, this hadn’t been their fight, but their whispers sounded like shouts in his ears. He wished for his pain to return for the first time, to distract him from this agonising wait, but he had to settle for the solid feel of Erica’s piece in his hand.

Derek rested a hand on his knee. “There’s no way they’re getting away with this.”

“They won’t get prison,” Stiles said. “They can’t remember anything.”

“They don’t have to remember anything when there’s evidence,” Derek said. “With their mental state, they’ll probably get Eichen House, and compared to that place, killing them would have been a mercy.”

“He’s right. I’ve been there,” Malia added, with a nonchalance that could only come from Peter’s daughter.

The answer came almost as soon as Scott and Deaton walked in the door. His father sent a simple text that Derek read out, “guilty” and Scott and Kira were throwing their arms around him before he could even process the meaning of the word. As the shock subsided and relief took over his bones, he slipped from their grasp and into the waiting embrace of Derek. Scott and Kira hardly noticed him missing.

Melissa called Scott then, as Liam set about messaging the missing pack members from Stiles’ phone. She’d gone to the court officially to give medical evidence, but she was really there to support the Sheriff and Boyd.

“Three of them were convicted of Erica’s murder, and two of the Sheriff’s attempted murder,” Scott told them later. “But they all had so many charges against them from the other states, they saw no need to sentence for the attack against Stiles. They’re never getting out, dude.”

“All of them?”

“No, the adults all have several life sentences to serve at Eichen House. The kids will go to Eichen House too, then be put in foster care.”

“Eichen House?” Stiles repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

~~~  
Stiles wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead, and groaned as it left behind a line of white paint. (It was magnolia according to Melissa, but whatever, it looked white to him.) The fall was uncharacteristically hot, even with November only two weeks away, and the decorating job was stifling work. The Hale house was almost complete, although they had started calling it the Pack House now. His dad and Melissa took the master bedroom, because that relationship was a thing that happened, and Scott demanded a room of his own because he was the eighteen-year-old alpha adult who should be allowed to have Kira stay over whenever he wanted without asking his mother’s permission. Malia got a fold-out bed in the study for whenever Peter drove her crazy, and while Boyd was staying with his family, the sofa was his whenever he wanted. That left Stiles to share the remaining bedroom with Derek, which was no problem for either of them. In fact, Stiles suspected Scott’s alpha tantrum was thrown for that reason.

The Sheriff, Scott and Boyd were outside, working on the smaller building they’d built on the land that would house the returning pack members at Christmas, Melissa was at work, and Malia was off doing whatever she and Peter did together. The house was theirs alone.

He finished painting as Derek brought in the last box of Stiles’ belongings. They were mostly the books Deaton had given him for his emissary training, relieved to be finally passing only the mantle and actually focusing on being a vet, although with Stiles’ emissary training and the training for Scott’s veterinary course at Beacon Hills Community College, he was getting even less work done than before.

Resting on top of of the box was the metal wolf mask of Little Red.

“What do you want to do with it?” Derek asked, setting down the box and running a finger over a cold, steel ear.

“Wear it,” Stiles answered automatically.

“You don’t need to be Little Red anymore,” Derek said. He moved forward, slipping his arms around Stiles’ waist to meet at the base of his back. “There’s nothing left to avenge.”

“It makes me feel powerful,” Stiles said honestly. “And it reminds me of my Catwoman.”

“Yeah, she’d love the mask,” Derek nodded. He pressed a light kiss to Stiles’ hair. They were both covered in paint now. “But I think she would have preferred you making it a bat.”

“Even vigilante emissaries are wary of copyright infringement.”

“How about we hang it on our wall when you’re not using it?” Derek suggested. “Then it’s like she’s always here.”

“But then it’d be like she’s always here…” Stiles laughed. “Watching us. In bed. Doing our bed things.”

“She’d probably like that,” Derek mused. “She’d be proud of you.”

“She is,” Stiles said, slipping away from Derek’s embrace. “She told me.”

“Well that makes no sense at all.”

Stiles went to their window, which overlooked the building at the rear of the house and the yellowing trees beyond. He pointed to a small gap in the foliage. “You see that?” he asked, pointing. “There used to be a tree there called the Nemeton. Supposedly a super-powerful tree that got cut down, but the roots are still there.”

Derek nodded. “My mother talked about it.”

“Lydia took me there before she left,” Stiles took in a deep breath, “and Erica was waiting for me.”

“You saw her?” Derek asked.

“No, but she spoke to me through Lydia. Banshees are awesome.” The grin on Stiles’ face faded as quickly as it had arrived. “Anyway, she asked me not to tell you until she’d gone in case…”

“I wanted her to speak to my family,” Derek finished for him.

“They’re not there, Derek. I’m sorry, but their spirit only remains with the Nemeton until their business is complete. Your family must have passed on when Peter killed Kate.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. He hugged Stiles from behind, taking in the view. Below, Scott and Boyd were engaged in a paint-fight. “But how was Erica still there? Shouldn’t she have gone when you defeated the Wallises?”

“Her unfinished business was to say goodbye to Boyd and me,” another grin spread across Stiles’ face. “And to tell you that you were the worst Alpha ever. But she loved you anyway.”

“Well this Worst Alpha Ever is about to kick your ass at a paint-fight, Little Red.”

“Oh really?” Stiles pushed away, taking up a paintbrush like a blade. “My sensei Kira Yukimura has taught me well,” he said in an exaggerated voice. “You cannot hope to defeat Little Red, master of magic, stepbrother of the Alpha and wielder of the Baseball Bat of Destiny.”

“Your skills in natural magic and zest for baseball treachery are no match for my natural strength, cunning, and eyebrows,” Derek retorted.

“Ha ha ha!” Stiles swiped his paintbrush across both of Derek’s eyebrows. “I have taken away the source of your power. You cannot hope to succeed.”

“I am slain!” Derek threw himself exaggeratedly on the plastic-covered bed. “I am now at your mercy. Perform your wicked deeds upon my body!”

If Erica was really with them through the mask, she was about to get quite the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I have been working on this since the end of season two! I've partly just been mega busy over the past few years, and partly am just terrible of keeping to a schedule. But yes, it's now over! Thanks to everyone who stuck with this fic despite how long it took to finish. I may go back and make a few edits because there's some things that I'm unhappy with, but we're done here. Yay!


End file.
